


Couple's Therapy

by Embleer_Frith0323



Series: Carry Me [1]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, My First Smut, Oral Sex, Sex, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8804296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embleer_Frith0323/pseuds/Embleer_Frith0323
Summary: On Wally's would-be twenty-fourth birthday, Dick and Artemis hit the streets for a night of fun as a distraction from their collective grief. The decision to jokingly attend an orgasm workshop goes from fun to complicated when they discover that there's a "hands-on" element to the class. When they opt to see the whole seminar through, it introduces a potential new dynamic to, and raises questions about, their relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooooooooo, everyone... 
> 
> Hope all is well! ^_^
> 
> Firstly, this was great fun to write, even if I'm not overly comfortable with or experienced in romance, fluff, smut, or even just basic sex scenes, but once I got into it, I could understand why people love to write/read all of the above--all of it is a blast, especially between characters/a pairing that you love. :-D 
> 
> Secondly, hopefully this comes off well, and is believable and enjoyable. :-) It's kind of geared toward a "sex positive" thought process. <3 I understand that the subject might be a little on the "wtf" side for some. But, those in doubt, I assure you--these classes indeed exist! :D 
> 
> Thirdly, I modeled the class off of the one offered by Jaiya and Jon Hanauer, the authors of the book "Red Hot Touch," which was a useful research tool in the construction of this fic (don't ask why I have it.) XD I also drew from mytinysecrets.com. <3 Thank you, Adina Rivers, you beautiful goddess, you! ^_^
> 
> Fourthly, YES, I did take some liberties with Bludhaven... I figure it's got to at least have ONE nice area, lol. XD (Even if the rest of it is a dive.) :P
> 
> Please enjoy. <3 ^_^
> 
> Much, much love. <3 <3 <3 :-) 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo  
> ~EF

_Well,_ I thought to myself, staring up at the ceiling of a room that was anything but private, and lying across the lap of a guy who was decidedly _not_ my boyfriend, _this is a fine way to round up a list of things I’m thankful for right before Thanksgiving._

I lay back, carefully avoiding my not-boyfriend’s gaze, and tuning out the sound of the instructor’s voice as I felt my unexpected seminar buddy’s warm, callused palm pass over the bare skin of my shoulders, drawing up gently under the nape of my neck, and then working strong fingers into my scalp. I tensed at first, initially uncertain about this normally intimate display of physical contact, but after a few moments of vocally guided massage that sent heated, tingling fingers of electricity all the way down my spine and through my arms, I shivered appreciatively, relaxing beneath his touch, coasting on the trust between us, reassured by our closeness. 

_We’ll laugh about this someday._

So if you’re wondering how I wound up at an orgasm class with Dick as my handy—literally, _handy_ —partner, I guess I might as well make a long story long (ha, ha.) 

After a tedious afternoon of giving long-winded tours to kids and teenagers at the venerable Hall of Justice (which, as I’ve now revealed, is just a dumb tourist trap), we found ourselves standing on the lowermost of the outside steps in the stormy, late afternoon, deliberating over a distraction from the knowledge that it was November eleventh—Wally’s would-be twenty-fourth birthday. Dick had nabbed me a few minutes before, when I’d sat staring at a Styrofoam cup of crappy, burnt coffee (really, Bruce?), the homework I’d brought with me out of the noble intention of completing it between tours entirely forgotten, no longer up for my part in volunteering my time for the League. 

“You want to make a break for it?” he’d asked conspiratorially, eyeing with trepidation the army of boisterous, peacocking teenagers that goofed around obnoxiously with the revolving doors into the main room, and the family of barely contained siblings, little carbon copies aged five-ish to pre-teen, that bobbed around a harassed-looking mother at the front desk just beyond. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Yeah, let’s blow. Kaldur and M’gann can deal from here,” I readily agreed, and hastily gathered up my belongings. “I mean, they’ll forgive us, right?”

We’d broken off to the locker rooms to change, and then slipped out of the building on the sly. Now, on the steps outside, I hunched against the bitter weather.

“So… where are we getting out of here to?” I asked through the shouting wind and stinging downpour. 

“I dunno, I thought it was a good night for a walk,” Dick replied, grinning.

“Right,” I laughed. “Want to get a drink or something?”

“Yeah, let’s just make the getting there part quick.”

“Do we have to get one here or can we Zeta somewhere that isn’t Hoth?” I asked. 

“Let’s Zeta to Bludhaven,” he replied.

“…I said somewhere that isn’t Hoth, Dick.”

“Yeah, but I get free drinks at this dive there because I knocked the teeth out of some dude who was trying to steal the owner’s tip jar.”

“Oh, how charming,” I said, falling into step with him as we raced back up the stairs toward the Hall’s entrance. “Is the owner a girl?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“Figures,” I laughed. “So, Boy Wonder—did you bang her across the bar after her shift? Did she like it? Did it become a regular thing? Is she going to be offended if you show up at her bar with some other chick?”

“For as sweet as that sounds,” said Dick, his smile broadening under the speckling of sleet that smattered his face. “No, no, also no… and I’m pretty sure she’s _not_ going to be offended—she’s approximately 110 years old and more like my grandma.”

“Ah,” I said. “Still, I’m a little confused, so help me out here… Why go all the way to Bludhaven for free drinks? I mean… can’t you afford to just buy a bar or all the liquor in the world or a barmaid you can like, keep in your house?”

We passed through the Zeta Tube into Bludhaven, and as we entered the city from the mouth of the teleporter, he turned and gave me a devilish look. 

“Who said I never wanted to bang Marjorie?” he said.

I laughed. “She a _hot_ grandma or something?”

He grinned. “Well, her place is kind of a dump, but she seriously A, makes the best drinks, and B, it’s free—and trust fund kid or no, I still dig free stuff. Oh, and C, I legit like her. She’s a really nice lady. You’ll like her a lot, I promise.”

Marjorie’s place, the aptly named “Marjorie’s,” _was_ a total dive—but upon entry, it was clean enough, with a handful of wooden tables that, although scuffed, were tidy and polished, and two pool tables that were worn, but sturdy and fully equipped. A television hung from one corner, broadcasting the NFL game. That explained Superman’s absence from the Hall of Justice during touring hours, I thought. Dick led me to a stool at the bar—watermarked, scratched, and borderline antique, but again, well-kept and clean. 

“Well, well, looks like someone forgot his slicker,” came the good-natured, gravelly voice of an older woman. 

I smiled as the proprietor, presumably the now-famous Marjorie, approached us from the other side of the bar. She was unmistakably getting along in years, but she wore it well, her face lapsing into comfortable age lines that framed her eyes and mouth. Her hair was completely gray, short and feathered softly around her cheekbones, her eyes a sparkly blue. 

“And I see you brought a friend,” she said, and tsked. “That you couldn’t even foot an umbrella for…”

Dick gave her a rueful, boyish smile. “Yeah, I think I checked the wrong weather report. Marjorie, this is my friend Artemis.”

She smiled at me. “Ah, yes, _Artemis,_ ” she said, her tone knowing. “Hi.”

I fought a second of bafflement, then smiled in return, and lifted a hand in greeting. 

“So what brings you in tonight, hot stuff?” she asked Dick. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Um… Kind of an awkward anniversary,” he replied. “For both of us.” 

“Mm.” She nodded, and gave him a joking look. “Break-up?”

“Not quite, but you’re getting warm,” I said, resting my head on my hand, the old pain, always present, sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, now all at once overpowering.

“Well, I won’t press you kids for the story if you don’t want to share,” said Marjorie. 

“It’s okay,” I told her. “My boyfriend—his best friend—it would have been his twenty-fourth birthday today.”

“We’re basically here to get alcohol poisoning,” Dick supplied.

Marjorie chuckled. “Well, just don’t slap me with the medical bills and I’ll help you out with that.” 

Dick grinned at her, and she turned her attention to me.

“You got a ride home?” she asked. 

“Oh, I’m hoofing it, too,” I said. 

“All right, then. Just get each other home safe. What do you feel the most like throwing up in the morning?” Marjorie asked good-naturedly. “You know vodka’s mostly tasteless.”

“Moonshine?” queried Dick. “Like, ten of those, straight-up?”

“Cute,” Marjorie chuckled. “But no. Try again.”

“Marjorie, you’re a Level 20 Wizard,” he said, still grinning. “Whatever potion you’ve magicked up since last time is fine—so long as it’s _strong_.” 

“You like homemade apple brandy, honey?” Marjorie asked me. 

By now at ease in her presence, I said, “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

She nodded with something like approval, and then turned to craft and produce the brandies—both of which smelled heavenly, were served warm, and were really cute, with little apple wedges on the rims of the glasses and cinnamon sticks poking out. 

_If I had an Instagram…_ I thought, charmed, warming my hands against the mug. 

Dick and I sat in silence for a while, just sort of nursing the drinks, until he spoke.

“So… You get any sleep last night?” he asked.

I gazed at him, studying the marks of fatigue that played across his own face. He knew the drill—all too well. Again, I rested my elbow on the bar, and laid my head on my hand. 

“Not really,” I told him ruefully. 

He didn’t speak, just sat with his brandy, a familiar expression on his face. I’d seen this same expression a lot over the last few years, and pretty much since I’d first known him, come to think of it—he was waiting for me to open up. If I wanted to.

I did.

“Honestly…” I said, my voice a slow and feeble replica of itself, “I don’t know why I don’t just move. I haven’t actually slept in the bedroom since, well, you know. I actually spend more time at my mom’s than at home these days and just Zeta to Cali and haul foot to campus. There’s not a whole lot of purpose for me to have anything other than a studio at this point. My mom’s pretty much stolen my dog, it’s kind of a commute to school, it’s a lot of apartment to deal with when it’s just me, and… I don’t know.” I sighed. “Maybe I should just move on campus and finally give the whole legit college experience thing a shot. It’ll only have taken me until grad school.”

“Well, if it’ll help you stay whelmed, I say go for it,” he said. His tone softened, and he turned on his stool, angling closer to me. “I know this has been hard on everybody, Artemis… but… I can’t even _fathom_ what this has been like for you.”

I lifted my head from my hand. “…Says the kid who lost his parents?” I said, staring at him. “Um—and his aunt and cousin, and a teammate, _and_ his best friend—”

He shook his head. “Well, sure, but it’s not like I can say I know how you feel.”

“Oh, please. Sure you do. You don’t have to discredit your emotions or anything.”

He gave me a mollifying partial smile. “I’m not discrediting my emotions, trust me. But like I said, it’s not like I know how you feel. Fact is, I _don’t_. I’ve lost my share of loved ones, fair enough, but specifically speaking—I’ve never lost a partner.”

I inclined my head. Babs had effectively kicked him to the curb a couple of months before. They remained friendly on the surface, but I had a feeling it was more for show and the sake of the team than anything else. Dick, I knew, took it really hard, and didn’t have the easiest time maintaining his happy-go-lucky façade when she was around. And looking back, M’gann and La’gaan took their break-ups pretty hard, too. Break-ups to me definitely constitute losing a partner. Still, I decided to let him say his piece.

“Anyway, I know Bruce would say not to go for the whole geographical fix thing—” he launched into his monotone Bruce impression, _“It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t confront anything. You must face your demons.”_

I chuckled and nodded, thinking on how he occasionally hummed the Imperial March under his breath when Batman entered the control room in the Watchtower. “Right,” I concurred, “like you’re avoiding it, basically.”

“Yeah.” He lifted a shoulder. “Hiding from it, or whatever. But—you know I went on leave after it happened. God, it took me over a _year_ before I could face the job again.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said. I gave him a smile. “…Man, I missed you.”

He smiled back at me. “I missed you, too.” He paused, and studied the glass of brandy. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get back into it, I just…” He trailed off, sipped his drink, sighed. “The team just… wasn’t the same anymore, without Wally. And with him being—you know, _gone_ , not just retired.” 

I understood that.

“Anyway…” Dick went on, “I don’t even want to _think_ about having memories of him just shoved in my face all day, you know, if I wasn’t sure I felt like confronting them. Being here in Bludhaven where I saw him at max like once a month is hard enough.”

“Yeah,” I said. I finished the brandy in my own snifter. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Yep. So I get it,” he said, following suit with his drink. “So… If you feel like you need to move, I say go for it.”

I nodded, warming inside, and not just from the brandy. “Okay.”

“And… Not to get all _Lifetime_ movie on you, but… anything you need, I’m here. Be that helping you with your geographical fix, or giving you an ass-load of calc tutoring—” I laughed, he’d always given me a hand with math classes when I needed it—“or just listening. I’m here. Always. Okay?”

I smiled at him, fighting a buzz-induced urge to tear up. That brandy was some seriously strong shit. “Thanks, Dick,” I said.

He gave my arm a light squeeze. “I mean it.”

I felt awkward. I always felt awkward during touchy-feely-smushy moments like these. Not that I didn’t like them, they were just _awkward._ “Yeah. And… same to you. Okay?”

He smiled. 

“So…” I said, turning as two more apple brandies were dropped in front of us, this time with shots of Fireball whiskey alongside. Nice. I thanked Marjorie, and then shifted my gaze back to Dick. “How’s it going with you and Barb?”

He paused in drawing his snifter closer to him, and studied the bar for a moment.

Finally, he quaffed his drink, and said, “Uh… it’s not.” I didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice. “She hasn’t talked to me outside of team stuff in weeks.”

I didn’t say anything. I love Barb to pieces, always have, always will, but she _really_ had the capacity to be a total jerk where Dick was concerned. He was like that totally sweet puppy that Barbara would scream her head off at for spilling the water dish. It drove me nuts,and there were times I felt like jamming my foot up her snatch if she didn’t knock it off. 

“Well,” I said, studying the drinks with every intention of drowning my feelings in them, “this stuff looks like it has enough straight alcohol in it that it’ll ensure instant liver failure between the both of us, so…”

“I think that is a good death,” said Dick, affectedly solemn. He held up his Fireball glass. “To Wally?”

“Yeah,” I said, lifting mine. “To Wally. Happy Birthday.”

We toasted, downing the whiskey, and returning the shotglasses to the bar. My whole chest felt like it got doused in gasoline and lit on fire. I coughed and my eyes welled. 

“Ugh,” I said, when I’d collected myself, streaming tears and giggling, by now _really_ starting to buzz. “It burns so good.” 

Dick was grinning at me, clearly amused. “Game for another round?”

“Oh, hell yeah, I’m game,” I told him, still a little breathless from coughing. “I’m finally feeling halfway to not-shitty and I’d _really_ like to keep that feeling going.”

And keep it going, we did, although by some miracle we curbed it before we were legally _completely_ obliterated. Aside from drinking a lot, we talked a lot, too. And… in spite of the circumstances of the day, it really felt good, unloading—even if I was guilty of some serious over-sharing while I unburdened myself. And more than just the heartsickness I suffered from Wally’s strange death, or disappearance, or whatever it was—school stuff, Mom stuff, sister stuff, bitchy girls at grad school stuff, jealousy stuff, how my vibrator wasn’t cutting it for me anymore. He did the same—he outpoured about Bruce, his parents, how underwhelming school and contracting out his network security prowess for extra cash all his own was, how he felt the team blamed him for everything that happened a few years ago with the whole Reach invasion fiasco that preceded Wally’s death. He mentioned he’d suffered a lack of rebound sex in the wake of his breakup, and between school, contract work, the team, and making an effort at some semblance of a social life, he hadn’t found a lot of time to self-indulge, either.

“I haven’t gotten laid in like _eight months,_ ” he lamented forlornly, dropping his head to the surface of the bar. 

“Oh, cry me a river, you asshat, I haven’t had sex in over two years now!” I said, drawing stares from a couple of curious gentlemen (a loose term) at one of the pool tables. Grossed out, I waved a hand at them. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I mouthed with a snooty expression. 

“Yeah, but for me eight months is like eight _years_ ,” he protested. 

I laughed. “Well, you _do_ run on the time of a rabbit,” I said. I paused, lighting on something in my muddling brain. “Wait… I thought you and Babs broke up in July, how have you not had sex in eight months? Were you guys just that pissed at each other?”

“Uh, sort of…” he said, grimacing. “More like Babs kind of withheld sex as a form of punishment. Apparently she had a _lot_ to punish me for those last four and a half months. Not that I was keeping track or anything…” 

I shook my head with incredulous pity.

“Jesus, Dick, keep talking like that and I might have to give you a mercy jump,” I said, by then properly intoxicated.

“Don’t say that, I might _let_ you,” he replied, giggling drunkenly into his shot glass. 

I surprised myself by finding that I was still laughing and goofing around before we finished up liquefying. By the time Dick left enough money in Marjorie’s tip jar to buy her a private island somewhere, I was further astonished to feel a slight distance from the ever-present pain that had doggedly haunted my steps since Wally died. It was still there, humming somewhere beneath the surface, but its cadence, for once, I couldn’t hear.

We headed outside the bar, both of us giggly and heedless of the cold and rain-turned-snow that swirled in the heaving winds off the water. We were a tad wobbly, supporting each other’s slightly unsteady gaits in the beating weather.

“Wait, wait,” said Dick, sobering up a little, “listen.” He turned his head, looking off into the snowy night, concentrating a moment. “You hear that?”

I listened, and yes—I heard it.

Voices raised, somewhere on the other side of Marjorie’s bar by the sound of it. We both ducked into a stealthier pace, and moved alongside the building, keeping to the shadows. He led, and I hovered at his shoulder. Neither of us had weapons, but in minor civilian skirmishes like the one that sounded like it was brewing, neither of us had a worry, either—drunk or no.

We moved around the buildings aside the bar, following the sound of the voices, until we lit upon the scene we sought.

Four young men, all standing with puffed out chests and extended arms, the standard alpha male display of power. (Eye roll.) Before them stood another youth who was middling in build—just under tall, just under muscular, just under intimidating… clearly incapable of taking on all four of these guys head-on. All of them were college-aged, and in expensive clothing. I took note of a black Jaguar parked a ways off on the street. I looked over at Dick. 

“Society kids,” he murmured. “Risky.”

I nodded. “Bide our time, then.”

We hovered at the edge of the building, concealed in shadow, as we allowed the situation to present itself.

“Listen, you little shit stain,” said one of the men, stepping toward the middling guy, the apparent would-be victim. “You got my boy Eric here in some serious shit turning his dope in to the coach.”

“Eric’s the one who chose to party so much he needed dope to make up for how many practices he’s missed,” the smaller kid snapped. 

I pursed my lips. “Plucky,” I said approvingly. “Me likey.”

“Yeah, my dad’s spoutin’ off about damning me to an Amish existence for the rest of my life, or throwing me in the goddamn military, and the NCAA is threatening my scholarship, thanks to you, ya fuckin’ narc,” said one of the boys, I assumed (correctly) Eric. 

“You threatened your own scholarship and did all that to yourself,” said the littler guy. “You don’t get to roid yourself out and start while the rest of us bust our asses and get benched.”

“Welcome to the real world. Maybe your bitch-ass should grow a sack before you even _try_ playing in the big leagues,” Eric said. 

“You’re the one on steroids,” the smaller boy said, his voice rising. I caught the sound of the slightest tremor in it, even as he went on to say, “I think it’s safe to say _you’re_ the one who needs to grow a sack.”

Dick and I gave each other a grimly amused, collective smile as those words settled on the circle of jocks. 

“Oh, that’s _it_ , you little fuck,” said this chest-puffing Eric character. 

And with that, all four of the larger boys lit on the smaller one.

My own smile spread as Dick grinned back at me, waving his hand in the “move” gesture. We sprang out from the corner of the building. 

“Oooohhh, free hugs!” Dick cried, and leapt toward the fray with some abandon. I followed suit, singling out one of the guys that had hared off a ways from the other three to go after the kid’s head. I casually bopped between him and his prey, stalling his would-be blows with well-aimed heels to the arches of his feet. 

“What the ever-loving fuck—” he sputtered, stumbling. He righted himself, and gawped, seeing me there, grinning, braced in a ready stance, egging him on by giving him a “come hither” gesture. Dick came to stand beside me, his stance easy, relaxed. 

“Better shake it, Small Fry,” I told the would-be victim. He scrambled to his hands and knees, and darted away.

The four bullies had by now all drawn up short, standing in a brief moment of uncertainty, wondering at who the hell we were and what could have possessed us to drop in on their little gang bang. As it stood, to them, we _were_ outnumbered, even if Small Fry decided to put his money where his mouth was and leap to our side and join us in the fracas. Goading smiles crossed all four of their faces as they gathered together, readily advancing on Dick and me. 

“Look,” Chest-Puffed Eric said to me, lifting his hands, still grinning, “don’t make me hit a chick. My mama brought me up right, you know.”

“Oh—” I fanned myself, “you’re so noble! My heroooooo…”

I fake-swooned into him, and was gratified when he caught me. He boosted me up, and turned to his pals. 

“Dude, this bitch is loaded,” he giggled. 

“Pffffttt… Help… I can’t stand…” I feinted a flop in one direction, reversing it at the last second, catching myself even as _he_ comically lost his balance. I spun out of the way with an exaggerated ballet flourish as he performed an epic swan dive into the pavement by way of a well-placed soccer-style kick to his ankle. If any security cams were nearby, or if one of the guys got smartphone-happy, it would look like I fell, tried to straighten, and then he went to grab me. Self-defense. Suck it, Alpha Sigma Sigma (ha, ha!) 

He twisted to his feet, swearing, confused. And… Bottom line—“Alpha Male Football Scholarship Recipient” does _not_ equal “Scrappy Dappy Doo.” It was an underwhelming scrap at best, with both Dick and me kind of just laughing and dancing circles around our opponents. Although we wanted to stall the bullies—we didn’t exactly want to get nailed for assault, either.

“Ring around a rosy, pocket full of posies…” Dick sang merrily, skipping and bouncing out of the way of their attempted blows until one of them met the same fate as Eric (i.e. a nice face-plant into the asphalt), who, in spite of his inherent douchebaggery, backed off after a moment and sullenly went to chill by the Jaguar. I waited for him to call the cops, but he didn’t. Bored with dancing in drunken circles with the frat troupe, I opted to hang out with Small Fry where he hovered on the sidelines. We both cheered raucously for Dick. 

(Don’t judge. I was inebriated enough that looking cool wasn’t really on my list of pressing concerns.)

The fight dispersed eventually, with the end result being Dick forcing the jackasses to apologize to Small Fry and recognize that they had driven the nails into their own coffins by doping like 1980s body-builders. Small Fry diminutively approached us when the assholes peeled off in their Jaguar, the car fishtailing over the rime of ice before righting itself and taking its defiant brakelights off into the distance. 

Small Fry, Eddie, it turned out, gave us a bit of a sheepish thank you, declining our offer to help him find a ride home (originally, his ride was the same wagon of jocks that sought to flatten him. From what he told us, they had lured him in with promises of a party that wasn’t of the nature they indicated.) He lived on campus not far from where we were. I was gratified (if astonished) when he gave me a quick hug before jogging off. 

“Well, that was fun,” I said, giggling, still jazzed from waving imaginary pom-poms, wiping snow out of my eyes as I fell into step beside Dick. 

“Hell, yeah, it was,” he agreed, equally mirthful. “By the way, you totally missed your calling—you ought to be cheering for Young Justice.” 

He waved his hands in a pretty stellar imitation of my raucous cheering from before as we made our way onto the main sidewalks. I vociferously agreed and busted a cartwheel mid-mango, heedless of the snow, crowd of fellow pedestrians, and my loosely wrapped scarf. I was in imminent danger of splitting my sides when he joined me in my cheering endeavors by breaking into a front walkover right into the pole of an unlucky streetlamp. He wound up on his butt in an indignant pile of coat atop a snowdrift. I helped him up, giggling when he bowed with a sheepish flourish. I prayed we wouldn’t get nailed for public intoxication and lobbed a prayer of gratitude heavenward for secret identities. 

“Uh, yeah, _you_ need to be cheering for Young Justice,” I told him as he brushed the snow from his jeans.

“Oh, you know it, even that pole came up to give me a hug for that amazing walkover,” he said, his face dusted with a boyish red. I’d never seen him blush before. I fought a snicker. 

“Well, it _was_ hug-worthy. We should team up,” I suggested.

“Hey, I'm game, but we’d need new uniforms first.”

“ _Miniskirts!_ ” I said. “Cough up the cash, Trust Fund.”

“Oh, dude, if I bought you a miniskirt, Wally would totally come back from the dead and start screwing with my toilets,” he said. 

“Oh, please, he’d be sitting on the sidelines ogling and then I’d have to compete with _you_ for his attention.”

“Well, he had a pretty big man crush on me all through high school—I’m _pretty_ sure he’d be game for a three-on,” Dick said. “So long as we didn’t have to cross swords or whatever.”

I guffawed. Wally complained a lot about sharing Tyrion Lannister’s feelings regarding his handsome brother when he had to walk around with Dick after he hit puberty. 

“Ugh, I’m not ready to end the night yet…” I whined as we came to the Zeta entrance to Gotham. 

“Me, either, I’m still pretty jacked up,” he agreed. “Want to see if there’s anything going on tonight?”

I nodded. “Sure, like what?” I leaned toward him a bit as he drew his smartphone from his pocket. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Concert, movie, whatever. Let me look at Active Bludhaven real quick,” he said.

I waited, bouncing in the cold and snow, then paused when he snorted, and burst into full-blown laughter. 

“What?” I asked, peering at the phone screen.

“Oh, my God, what fresh hell is this...” he sputtered. “Uh—well, we could go to an orgasm seminar…”

 _“What?!”_ I screeched. “For real?”

“I kid you not.”

“Are you serious? They actually _have_ those things?”

He held his phone out to me, laughing into his fist. I snatched it from him, and read the description. 

_“From intricate surgery to piano concertos, the hands have long been the instruments of true art, innovation, and invention in the world. Why not apply the full potential of these incredible instruments to your sex life? Come unlock the secrets of the Mystical Orgasm Gateway with us, Drs. Nik and Mila Basu, and learn just how much pleasure awaits you from as close as your own fingertips.”_

“Oh—my God…” I said, returning his phone to him. “We have to go. I mean, we _have_ to. We’re both sexually frustrated—uuuggghhh, I know _I’m_ sick to death of my stupid vibrator. I could totally stand to learn how to properly finger-bang myself.”

“ _You_ could stand to learn? Dude, I’m a guy, I don’t even have the luxury of a vibrator to help me out. I’ve got to kick it old school and jerk off in the shower in the morning. I’m going to fall asleep with my cock in my hand one of these days if I don’t shake things up.” 

“Yeah. _Literally_ shake things up.”

He made a shaky version of the jerk-it motion, and I snorted. 

“Uh, so can we register at the door?” I asked. “Or can you just like pay our way in?”

“Ahhhhhhh, sweet—no need to tap into my haggling skills, I can sign us up right here via the webpage,” he said triumphantly. “There are spots open, it’s in half an hour on the Upper East Side—holy shit, we can totally do this.”

“So what does it involve?” I asked curiously, falling into step beside him as we picked up the pace down the icy sidewalk. 

“No idea,” he said distractedly, madly thumbing the screen of the iPhone. “Guess we’ll find out…”

“I can’t wait to see what kind of people this thing brings in…” I giggled. 

“Possibilities there are endless,” he said. “Handful of pizza-smeared basement dwellers, rich people all into Tantra and Versace underwear and crap, couple of bored, drunk Millennials like ourselves...” 

I chuckled and held onto his arm as we passed over a particularly icy patch. “Wearing off-brand clothing.”

“Oh, don’t you go admitting _that_ in the Upper East Side.”

“Well, I’ve got your classy ass to shield me, don’t I?”

“Uh… if wearing Red Bubble and Forever 21 Men is classy…”

“Oh, you hold your tongue.”

“Look, we’re both capable. We’ll shield each other, how’s that,” he said, draping an arm over my shoulders. 

“Deal.” I snaked my own arm around his waist, a companionable move, being close enough to him to be comfortable with any shows of overt affection. I marveled over the fact that he and I were traipsing over the salted, snowy pavement to an _orgasm_ class—wasn’t that something that couples were more likely to do? Still, as mentioned, we _were_ pretty close. I mean… I’d one: caterwauled with no pride and thumped his front like a hurt, bewildered child some days after Wally had disappeared, two: walked around my Palo Alto apartment in a towel seeking an item of clothing that was still trapped in the drier while he was there engaged in Wii-U battle with my pre-fiancé, and three: was aware that he knew I shared DNA with some unsavory crapsacks from the very beginning and never once batted an eye in judgment. I guess learning how to finger-bang myself while he sat by me learning to do the same was pretty natural, all things considered. 

The class itself was held in the Upper East Side of Bludhaven, the lone area of the city where the clean money and unchecked, thriving culture tended to congregate. Not shocking that this area was where Dick chose to live. We actually passed his apartment on the way to the seminar, both of us pausing and waving at the building as we went by. I loved this part of Bludhaven, with its bright lights in myriad colors, elaborate enclosed gardens, abstract statues, wrought-iron staircases, pure white sidewalks and stark black streets. Now, in the wintry mix, it felt sleepy, mild, soft. 

Entering the Atrium building with its vaulted ceilings and abundance of green, reaching plants felt comforting and warm after being out for an extended interim in the cold. It was hard to believe that only the week before, my mother and I had sweltered in her apartment in Gotham, drooling sweat and sprawled in heaps under the blazing, summery sunshine until I caved in and turned on the blessed air conditioning. Climate change, I’m telling you.

We were checked in and funneled by receptionists working the event into a room in the corner of the building on the uppermost floor, both of us concealing our drunkenness by some unknown, miraculous grace of God. There were no chairs, but a plethora of pillows and throw blankets all set up throughout the room, forming little stations in which people already sat. In the front of the room was a wooden dais, on which stood, I assumed, the host and hostess. They bustled about, organizing articles I didn’t take much notice of, chatting with filtering guests and each other. A table stood off in the corner, with several copies of a book sporting a black-and-white, shadowy photograph of hands on its cover, DVDs with the same, CDs, and other merchandise, some of which looked like it might be a little risqué (oils, feathers, swatches of silk, satin, fake fur, etc.) The windows were covered with drapes, muting the lights from the city outside. We took a seat on a couple of pillows in a spot close to a window, and took in our surroundings. I noticed that aside from the blankets and such, bowls of some thick, clear substance stood by each little “station,” on electric warmers. Upon investigation, I discovered it was coconut oil. A pile of folded towels lay beside each, along with empty, plastic-lined baskets.

I felt the buzz of my phone against my thigh through the surface of my purse, and I pulled it out with the intention of turning it off. I looked over at Dick when I saw that the text was from him, and opened the message. 

_Not quite what I was expecting…_

I smiled, and typed a response. 

_Yeah, but look at all these CREEPS, lmaoooo XD_

Another buzz. 

_I especially like Kylo and Rey_

I subtly glanced over in the direction that he indicated, and had to suppress my own urge to giggle over what a startling resemblance the duo he referred to did, in fact, bear to Kylo and Rey. 

The thing is, though, the pupils around us were as varied as any group of people would be, not one of them overtly a creep. I’m not sure what I expected, really—a crowd of fetishists that I wouldn’t dream of judging but didn’t exactly share “interests” with or what, but the fact was everyone around us was pretty dang vanilla. Jeans, tee-shirts, office garb, one really cute rockabilly chick. I felt like a purebred asshole as I swallowed that massive slice of humble pie. I relaxed, something about the inclusive and well-populated environment making me feel a good deal more comfortable. Dick and I shared some cinnamon Altoids as we waited for the class to begin. 

“All right!” came a friendly, accented voice from the front of the room, the hostess’. “Welcome to the _Mystical_ _Orgasm_ _Gateway_ Workshop.” There was a small smattering of applause. “I am Dr. Mila Basu, and this is my husband, Nikil, or Nik.” He lifted a hand with a surprisingly engaging smile. “Tonight, we are going to be sharing with you the art—and trust me, everyone, it is an _art—_ of the hand-driven orgasm.” More applause. “Whether you want to consider this little course to be something of a sexual education, or like… a couples therapy, or anything else, it is up to you, but we are here to reshape your sexuality into an experience more pleasurable, more new, more exciting. We’ll be going over some techniques to provide the most unforgettable of orgasms, how to give the hottest massage, go over the body’s erogenous zones and how to elicit the greatest responses from them, and much, much more.” There was an excited murmur, and my phone buzzed. I checked the screen.

_What do a penis and a Rubik’s Cube have in common?_

_…The more you play with it, the harder it gets_

I buried my face in the sleeve of my sweater.

“So!” Dr. Mila the Hostess continued. “How many of you are here to sort of… shake things up?”

A few hands lifted, Dick’s included. Again, I snickered.

“Okay, and how many of you are here kind of starting from Square One?”

Jokingly, I allowed my hand to go up with the others that, apparently, sorely lacked an education. Dick covered his face.

“Very good! We have an honest crowd this evening.” There was a collection of chuckles. “Now. Onto Serious Town. How many of you have never had an orgasm?” 

I sent Dick my own text as the hands of the less fortunate went up.

_How is sex like a game of Bridge?_

_…If you have a good hand, you don’t need a partner_

I watched him as he didn’t bother to mask his amusement, and then felt my head about snap off of my neck when I heard Mila say,

“So after we’ve gone over a few of the basic foundations, you will, in fact, have the great fortune of our vocal guidance to work a select few of these techniques on your partner, and also to have your partner work them on you. It’s our prayer that you will, indeed, open the Mystical Orgasm Gateway for the first time within this very room with… you know, a little helping hand.”

Everyone laughed at this pun, but I felt my heart sinking when the true nature of this particular seminar dawned on me like a nuclear blast. I glanced over at Dick, and saw that he was going a hundred shades of red and white, his thumbs wildly pounding his iPhone. 

_Welp, that explains the lack of singles I didn’t notice before_

I felt a light sweat starting in my armpits. God, was the room that hot prior? I pulled my ponytail over my shoulder, and replied.

_I’m not drunk enough for this…_

Buzz:

_I’m TOO drunk for this_

I sat, phone in hand, a million thoughts sprinting like hurdlers on a track team through my mind. 

_Well, maybe we can bail before the hands-on part,_ I sent. 

His reply, _Fair enough. We can learn some handy stuff in the meantime_

I smiled over at him, relieved, and we sat back as Mila and Nik launched into the first lesson. I propped myself against the pillow behind me to listen, determined not to worry about how lame it was that Dick paid for the seminar and we wouldn’t even be staying for the whole thing. I’d have to make it up to him in some way, buy him ten dinners or whatever. 

And then—a _new_ conundrum popped up. 

Nik and Mila talked a bit about themselves (both psychologists certified in body sexology, married for eleven years, one child, so on) before launching into the actual sex ed. Anatomy class came first, as was to be expected, the directors going over terminologies (fun fact—yoni equals girl bits, lingam boy parts), the body’s erogenous zones, and identifying particularly pronounced pleasure points. That was all well and good—nicely educational, given that it pointed out some areas I would never have considered to be hot spots. _Behind_ the ears? I thought of cats, probably not a favorite animal of mine, but realized maybe they were onto something. Absently, I scratched behind my ear, then kind of wished I had a partner to try it out with.

And… there it was.

The problem—and it was a _big_ one—arose as Nik and Mila spoke about different ways to set the mood, create atmosphere, provide some surprises and variety when touching one another (so _that’s_ what the fabric swatches were being sold for), added specific essential oils (which they described and explicated in great detail) to a diffuser to get the romantic feels flowing, and then, God forbid, as the bases were laid and the ball started rolling, partly disrobed and _demonstrated_ a few things on each other. 

I started feeling _really_ amorous. 

First of all, they were a _seriously_ attractive couple—Mila had this shimmery cascade of obsidian hair that fell in perfect sheets down her back and around her face, gorgeous, sultry, Audrey Hepburn doe eyes, and floating breasts that I’d have happily paid tens of thousands of dollars to have. Nik was like a bronze-skinned, dark-haired, sage-eyed omnipotent god with a body to rival the fittest in both the Justice League and Young Justice team. I couldn’t help chortling under my breath a little when Dick visibly gritted his teeth and averted his eyes after Mila just dropped the drapey little blouse she wore and let her amazing boobs hang free and oblivious over the folds of fabric at her tiny middle. And for all my discomfiture and sense that I stumbled on and bore unwelcome witness to a moment of patent intimacy, I started feeling something of a serious burn sparking in my own middle, like someone just flipped the gas and the heat went on, watching as her husband just got his hand all up in her lady bits and started going to town. It wasn’t so much _that_ as it was her response to his ministrations—all droopy eyes and uninhibited moans. Ugh, _voyeurism,_ now—as if I wasn’t horny enough. (Love gods everywhere wept with the crying of my soul.)

Second of all, I couldn’t ignore the fact that Dick was _seriously_ attractive, too. 

I sidelong studied his profile, the smooth nose with the barest jump at the end, the strong, stubborn jaw, the proud forehead. His hair, artfully messy and jet black, begged my hand to reach over and _touch it,_ just run my fingers through those gleaming tresses, luxuriating in what I imagined would be ribbons of silky heaven under my palm. There was a speckling of stubble over his jawline, just enough to achieve that sort of carefree-sexy thing that comes so hard to most guys (Oh… the puns.) His eyes were a deep indigo in the overhead lights. I wormed my lip to the side, and texted him.

_How you doin over there, sport_

I held my breath as Mila vocally hit her peak at the front of the room, and let it go when my phone buzzed. 

_Omfg I’m hard as a fucking rock right now D’: Blue balls in T-minus three, two, one…_

I sat for a moment, staring at that reply, the irascible itch exacerbated when Nik abruptly dropped trou to start the “lingam” demo. 

Finally, settling on my decision, effectively thrusting any last, clinging thoughts I may have had of Wally from my mind, I sent my text.

_Well, if you’re up for it (lolololol), I can give you a hand (lolololol) when we get to that part._

I looked over at him, unable to shake the clamoring desire to run my hands through all of that luxurious hair and discover what marvels the Man Wonder kept hidden in those well-fitting jeans, to bury all of the emotions of the day in these exploits—to hell with what the ramifications of such things might be. I waited in agony for his reaction when he spent a life age of the earth lifting and checking the screen of his iPhone.

His eyes went Muppet big, and he swiveled his head to look at me. I resolutely avoided his gaze, my teeth involuntarily clenched to straining, my heart somewhere in the vicinity of my tonsils.

He penned a response:

_10:9, Tigress, reading poorly._

I replied:

_10:4, Nightwing. I’m game if you are._

I kept my sideways eye trained on him once I sent that text, the Text of No Return. I saw his chest swell as his breathing altered. My phone, again, buzzed.

_Ex-squeeze me? A baking powder?_

I returned:

_Squeeze you—ha-ha-ha—well, since you asked xP~_

I watched with satisfaction as he squirmed and grimaced. 

_Omg plz stahhhp D:,_ he sent.

I muffled a giggle, and then could have screamed, watching Nik as his wife got his rocks off for him doing all manner of inventive tricks on his impressive boner. 

_Nope,_ I replied. _Show me why you’re the Eighth Wonder of the World, BOY WONDER_

The color in his face shifted kaleidoscopically from white to red to pink and back again. 

_You’re kidding, right,_ I received.

 _Totally serious. I owe you anyway for that shock collar :D,_ I returned _._

His lips spread into a properly chagrined smile.

_Ahhhh… That’s all well and good and everything but where are the whips and chains? :P_

I held back a laugh, and grinned at him before I replied.

_Not seeing any. Gotta get inventive. Can I use my teeth and nails? #resourceful #vigilantegenius_

He returned my expression. _Sold. #BatsMethodApproved_

I thumbed my own phone, and kept an eye on him as I wrote:

_So what’s the verdict, chief? Do we do this or delete the account?_

He stared over at me, his smile fading, his eyes widening by the second, and then typed:

_Oh my god you’re serious aren’t you…_

I gritted my teeth, and sent him:

_I’m about 104% serious._

He was silent, still, gazing at his phone. 

Finally, he thumbed the screen.

_Well, if YOU’RE okay with it…_

I smiled over at him.

_You out of those jeans would look a lot better than my old, tired vibrator. I’m okay with it._

It took a while, but then…

_Then I’m game, Tigress. 10:4._

A huge spark of quivering adrenaline lit up every nerve ending in my body. I fought the urge to stupidly grin, and was surprised when I received another message just after that one.

_We’ll laugh about this someday XD_

I met his gaze, and we shared a smile, a scheming one, one packed with daring and excitement and impropriety. I could _feel_ the anticipation as it pulsed between us, dynamic, a reverberating bass thrum that could have shaken the entire room.

I felt something else weasel its way into the pealing ocean tide of my pivoting feelings, other than the wild thrill and eagerness, a sense I couldn’t quite name when his fingers brushed my palm, and laced in mine. 

I could feel my heart picking up, snare drumming and radiating to my neck and wrists, as we observed the last of the lingam massage, hand-in-hand. I don’t know if I breathed until Mila announced that the workshop was going to begin—and from there, I can tell you I was breathing hard enough I’m astounded I didn’t faint. (Oh, la, young man, but my stays are laced _so_ tightly!) 

I hung out on the sidelines for a while, as Dick arranged a little “mat” for me on the floor in our station, constructing it from the pillows and throws available to us. I wasn’t overly sure what I should be doing, wondering if I ought to join in and help, but I sat fast when Nik mentioned from the front,

“Remember, about a yoni massage, you do not ask a _thing_ of the woman. If she isn’t held to any payment for your services or isn’t given any expectations regarding a return, she’ll be _so_ much more able to relax, and let go, and just _feel_ and _enjoy_ your touch.” His voice rose, and he continued in an ironically humorous tone, “Just because you bought her dinner does not mean she owes you anything.” There were some chuckles. “Allow her _response,_ her _opening up_ , her _love,_ all of those things to be her gift to you.”

So, I sat, and just let Dick do his thing. I fidgeted with my sweater sleeves, thinking on how convenient it was that I hadn’t bothered with a bra when I’d changed clothes before leaving the Hall of Justice. I have breasts like pert little teacups, and if I throw a cami on, I can wear a sweater over it and not need to worry too much about roving boobs. Even with my sans bra status, I didn’t look very sexy, I realized, looking down at myself. I looked better in my Tigress garb. The sweater I’d changed into that day was a hand-me-down from Jade, loose enough to almost be off the shoulder, a wine red color, and it covered a plain, white camisole—not hot, not even the effortless, sexy-casual look my sister inexplicably achieves. I was more… sloppy and lazy. Worn black leggings covered a pair of ancient “What Would Butters Do” panties. Black Converse, damp from the snow, shod my feet. I felt especially frumpy and uninspired next to Dick, who, in spite of being equally off-the-cuff in his gray, sandblasted jeans and “Cleganebowl 2016” hoody, looked painfully easy-sexy. (Granted, you could chuck that guy in a mud puddle and he’d _still_ look obnoxiously good.) Really my only saving grace was the fact that I’d bothered with some foundation and mascara that morning—although the snow and sleet had rinsed most of it off. 

“Now, as you can see, there are sarongs and blankets available if you are feeling modest, or if you get cold. Feel free to use them as you like,” Mila continued.

I noticed that plenty were at hand, and felt a tad better. The idea of Dick seeing my business was hugely intimidating in and of itself, but all these creepy strangers ogling what I had to offer made me wonder if leaping face-first through the window was a less undesirable enterprise. That we could use the sarongs when the time came lent a small bit of comfort.

Dick held up one of the sheets for me so I could shed my clothes with some semblance of half-assed privacy. I hurriedly peeled the threads away and piled them atop my coat, scarf, and bag before I took another sarong, and then stretched out beneath it on my back atop the mat, my head comfortably pillowed on the tealy-gold, iridescent cushion. I prayed the filmy material of the throw wasn’t overly see-through as Dick, per instruction, positioned himself behind me. I caught the light, muffled aroma of his cologne, muted and citrusy, as he bent over me, and, following directions from Nik and Mila, laid his hands, slick with the coconut oil provided to us, on either side of my face. 

“This will work much easier with your partner’s hair loose,” Mila was saying, “so if it’s pulled back, go ahead and take it down quick before we continue.”

I lifted my head, and slipped the ponytail holder from my hair. I resisted the temptation to slingshot it at Dick in an effort to maintain the light mood from earlier, fighting a sudden resurgence of fear of the upcoming events. 

Dick, again, rested his palms against my face, the heels of his hands lightly hovering over my cheekbones, the tips of his fingers on my chin. I tuned out the sound of Nik’s voice, intrusive in that moment, as Dick’s fingers slid over my jaw, drew over my ears, and then wove into my hair. I drew in a breath, and closed my eyes, my shoulders knitting up around my vertebrae like corset strings, my nerves humming with excitement, apprehension, pleasure, and discomfort all at once. 

_We’ll laugh about this someday._

I released the breath, and with it, I went all in and just let go of all of my nervousness, my indecision, my self-consciousness, _everything_ as Dick’s fingers moved from my scalp to my neck, and then to my shoulders, and then over my arms. Every bit of pressure seeped into my tired muscles, still sore from a rigorous workout the day prior, like a witch’s herbal salve, quieting all of the little aches and pains. His hands went from my arms to my shoulders and neck, up to my scalp, working into my skin in tingling little circles, and then back down to my wrists. I sighed, reveling in the millions of little micro-sensations, feeling the back of my neck tingle and my chest shiver in response to his touch. 

_To hell with it,_ I thought muzzily through the whiskey and sensory overload, _it’s just Dick…_

I opened my eyes when I felt his hands pause, resting on my shoulders. They trembled on the surface of my skin, and when I looked up at him, I saw that he looked a little unsure, and again, I could _see_ him breathing, his chest and shoulders lifting perceptibly with each inhalation. Nik’s words filtered into my ears, and drew a very clear explanation for Dick’s sudden uncertainty: 

“We’ll stimulate one breast at this time—just a light tease, we don’t want the big crescendo quite this early, tempting as that might be. Run your hands over both breasts to start, keep it gentle—”

“…Artemis, are you _sure_ you’re okay with this?” Dick asked, his voice low, leaning down close to me. I could feel the heat of his breath, smell its boozy, cinnamony scent. “I mean, we can skip this part…”

I inhaled through my own rekindled nerves, and looked up at him, blinking against lights that were suddenly over-bright. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, keeping my voice equally low, glancing over and feeling my face go hot when I caught sight of the other topless women around me. I mean… Okay, it’s not as though I’d never seen a pair of boobs that weren’t mine before—I share shower space in the Watchtower with my Young Justice teammates and everything—but in this context I felt a little disconcerted. Some of the women were covered in sarongs, like myself, but most were just… lying there with no secrets. I couldn’t help marveling over the lack of self-consciousness, or groupthink, or whatever it was. Well, peer pressure wasn’t enough for me to drop my shirt, I determined, swallowing the urge to start freaking out. “Let’s just go for it,” I added.

Dick looked a little panicked, but I leaned my head back, relaxing, affecting calm. I held my breath and again, closed my eyes when I felt his hands move over my shoulders, and just under the sarong. He was still for a moment, and then, a little tentatively at first, he let his palms pass over my breasts, somehow avoiding disarranging the throw. I exhaled, concentrating on my breathing, tuning out my surroundings. I lifted up a little, rising into his touch, not just to encourage myself in this, but him, as well. I was gratified when I felt a bit more confidence in his strokes—when he applied a deeper pressure, it really felt _very_ nice. Nice enough that, with each movement of his hands, I felt my anxiety allay itself, my muscles unwinding from their tangles of nerves and agitation, drawing themselves instead into easy, twined ropes of vibrating anticipation and curiosity. By the time one hand moved to my shoulder and the other splayed out over the little overturned teacup breast on my left, I was practically squirming with the banal, almost entirely physical, mindless want for further, deeper touch, all inner turmoil quieted, the doubts gone right out the window and down the same road as the dodo. 

I can’t say I expected what came next, considering that I’d always been a little self-conscious about my stupid teacups, and while Wally appreciated them, he respected that I wasn’t into having my tits focused on. I mean—he paid attention to them, sure, but he never made them the _stars_ of the show. 

I let my breath stay in my throat when I felt Dick’s fingers draw up over the areola, squeezing a little, raising it up a ways, something that struck me as weird, and then I felt my back arch, a movement that my spine orchestrated beyond any of my own mental composition, when his fingertip traced a series of gentle, feather-light circles on my nipple. The gooseflesh that scattered over my skin in response brought with it burning rollers of voltage that shook my center. I released a breath, took in another, unable to stop my back as it bowed. My face ended up pressed into his abdomen, muffling my respiration. 

I actually started wondering if a legitimate orgasm was already at the gates, spring-loaded, ready to race through my body like an army of barreling Seabiscuits, when the touch maddeningly went _poof_ and stopped. My eyes popped open, and I jerked my head down, lurching drunkenly back to real time. Mila’s voice, rather than Nik’s this time, blared into my ears. 

“You can tease her into a nipple orgasm some other time, gentlemen—we’re going to hit the brakes for now. Ladies, how are you feeling?”

There was a murmur of female voices, thick with oppressed feelings. I entertained a fuzzy moment of Schadenfreude at the knowledge that at least I wasn’t the only one suffering. Dick smiled down at me, and ran a hand over my hair as I reclined onto his lap, heaving a harsh sigh.

“You okay?” he whispered. 

“Ugh, why do you torture me…?” I moaned dejectedly, giving him a doleful look. 

“Was it that bad?”

I pressed a hand into my forehead. “Umm, if making my ears go numb is bad… I’ll stick with everything bad. Bad everything forever, thanks.”

His smile spread into a grin. “Well, if I had my druthers, I’d keep going,” he said, and gave my shoulder a mollifying squeeze. 

“Are you all amped up and ready for more?” Mila continued from the dais at the front. 

At the sound of accord, Mila spoke, directing the guys to arrange themselves in front of their molls, and I repositioned my head on the cushion, now that Dick no longer sat behind me. I took a second to be grateful for the fact that I had taken a shower and shaved that morning, and focused on the ceiling. Shit was _really_ getting real.

“Gents, begin by running your palms over her belly, down her legs, all the way down, caress the feet…”

I’ll be upfront, here—I _still_ don’t know how Dick was able to keep the sarong draped over my womanly areas while reaching up underneath it to conduct this lower body massage, which had me all but purring under its gentle, hypnotic power before even a few minutes had gone by. I inhaled the scents of the coconut oil, which meshed into a sweet cohesion with the rosemary-mint lotion I used, and the ylang-ylang and rose essential oils steaming from the diffuser at the front of the room, and relaxed, feeling my tired muscles unraveling, sinking into the throw that covered the flooring beneath me. I turned my face into the cushion, luxuriating in its silky surface against my cheek. 

When the massage was prompted to come to an end, I could probably have just said “fuck it” and gone to sleep right there, smack in the middle of it all.

“Don’t be too disappointed that part’s over, ladies,” Mila continued humorously. “Now comes the fun part… Boys, let’s rev our engines, and begin the yoni massage.”

I caught my breath in response to the little spear of adrenaline that poked my heart, kicking it out of its sluggish state. I didn’t have to look to know that Dick likely did the same.

_Ooohhh, boy. Here goes…_

“Okay, guys, you’ll start by resting one hand on your lady’s heart center—the space in the middle of her chest.” I felt Dick’s palm open over my sternum, unobstructed by the sarong that just barely concealed my assets, his touch warm, vibrant, electric. “Now, take your other hand, and cup her yoni.” 

I felt my lips tighten and my stalled breathing loose and speed up as that same heated touch made its way up between my thighs, and closed over my “yoni.” (I hadn’t decided yet if I found that term charming.) My chest leapt up and down under his hand with my wired respiration, my heart pounding against his palm. I felt my quads go rigid.

“Now,” Mila said, “let your hand go soft, and sink into her body.”

His hold relaxed, and although there were no visitors knocking at my door quite yet, I could _feel_ him, against the threshold, close, a little tremulous. I stared up at the ceiling, brightly glaring overhead. 

“Breathe. Connect. Look into each other’s eyes. Take the time to settle into each other.”

With brandy-woozy obedience, I shifted my eyes, and met his, feeling my heart bounce like a skipping record beneath that indigo gaze. Something unspoken passed between us in that moment, although what, I couldn’t quite say. Something in the vein of trust, intrigue, union—I didn’t fully know. But in the wake of this nameless thing’s passage, I calmed completely, no longer unnerved by his hand on my womanhood, tethered now to his hold on my chest. His lip curved in a slight half-smile. I reciprocated. 

“Gentlemen,” Mila continued, “as tempting is it might be when you feel her hips rise—” I realized that I had unwittingly let my hips elevate from the floor, “don’t go barging in just yet. Men always seem to be focused on the _destination—_ getting somewhere, making something happen. Touch her slowly, gently—let her fire _rise._ To that end… Run your fingers just over her pubic bone, and make slow, firm circles. Do not remove your hand from her yoni—and do not yet _enter_ it.”

I leaned my head back when the sparkles of confetti lit up in my middle, funneling down into my inguina, brought to a nascent glow under the gesticulations of his fingers. Every movement he traced over my skin conjured up entire stories of feeling—all new, unknown tales, lettering across my nerves and weaving fables evocative of a guileless, utopian pleasure otherworldly and all-powerful. I sensed my spine bowing, leaving the flooring, rising into those spinning storybooks of sensation, letting their words knit into my muscles and organs and bones, electrifying each and every one. Nothing existed outside of those stories—not one thing. Not my deceased boyfriend, not Dick’s freshly-single status, not my friendship with his ex— _nada._

As his fingers shifted down and traced shapes and wheels over that spot that everyone knows to be the ultimate way to a woman’s heart (i.e. the magical clitoris), I was dimly aware of Mila’s voice, echoing from some alternate dimension:

 _Don’t go stronger, don’t go faster… Just_ enjoy _the feeling of touching your lover, watching the beauty of her body as it responds…_

Then, I was panting, pressing my face into the cushion, twisting my neck, staring up at the acid yellow of the overhead lights, lost in something like raging fire and crashing water, my hands fitfully gripping fistfuls of the throw beneath me, three seconds from the fire and water breaking loose and consuming me in a drowning tsunami of every element in the universe. 

There was a moment of maddening pause, and I lay gulping air into lungs that scalded, gyrating my hips, all but pleading for more, to be brought still higher, all the way to that release that screamed at the pinnacle. 

_Slowly circle the entrance of her yoni… allow her to_ draw _you in…_

I felt his fingertips, teasing, light, probing. 

_Girls, flex the muscles of your pelvic floor, like a Kiegel exercise, and bring him inside at your own pace, whenever you’re ready._

I had to wrangle with myself not to just _vacuum_ him in, to exercise patience and allow the next step to pass gently. Men weren’t always the only ones destination-focused—I was fit to cuss a blue streak under the torment of how _slowly_ everything was moving (it was like a river of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup), how frequently I was left hanging, and for how _long_. Near tears, I sucked in a breath, centered myself as Dinah had so often urged me to in training, and contracted around his fingertips—and brought him in completely, pulling him down all the way to the knuckle. I was grateful for the veil of booze that curtained everything, leaving me less aware of and concerned about my surroundings, when a slight, undignified moan escaped my throat at the feeling of those strong, callused fingers, vibrating and alive inside me. 

_The G-Spot should be regarded as the ultimate path to the Mystical Orgasm Gateway… It is connected to her hormonal balance, her fertility, her emotional wellbeing and self-love, and is such a powerful orgasm generator… Start slowly…_

My lips nursed the warm, sweaty air, my throat again issuing its own expressions and responses, paying no heed to my conscious desire to remain silent and not make a noisy imbecile of myself in front of the guy I’d have to go fight crime with likely as early as the following day. I just couldn’t _stop_ the miniature symphony of noises—and I’d quit caring enough to try. 

_Now is the time to be a warrior, boys… Odds are the strokes you offer now cannot get deep or hard enough… So go for it, meet her needs, no matter how forceful or fast…_

My hips rocked with his motions as his taction mounted in intensity, pressing hard, slingshot with a locomotive speed. 

“Oh, God—” I breathed into the cushion, the words yanked out of me, “ohhh, my God—”

My hand found his knee, and I fisted the kneecap in a tangle of denim. I threw my head back when his thumb roved over that knot of nerves comprising the greatest orgasm generator of them all, even as his fingers within pushed upward into the pressure of his circling thumb. 

It wasn’t long following from there.

It happened in a way that seemed gradual and spontaneous all at once, and had me crying into the pillow beneath my cheek, my ears shrieking, my skull imploding, my eyes streaming and sight blinded in a shower of firecrackers. The braced, straining tidal wave finally exploded through my entire body, hurtling in heaving waves that rocked through my core and shattered it in a scorching earthquake, searing every last one of my nerve endings until I lay in a shaking pile, jawing the air like a stranded fish. I lapsed, floundering and disoriented, as I felt his fingers press against that fabled G-spot, unmoving, then pushing harder. I stiffened, throbbed, pulsated, entirely helpless by now, for the first time since I started dabbling in sex completely under the thrall of my partner. 

The throbbing slowed, ebbing into a state of utter stillness and physical silence, my body now anchor-heavy and sinking into the floor. His hand over my heart-center warmed me through, a beacon to sail toward through the storm-at-sea that overpowered my cognizance. I inhaled, held that breath a moment, and let it go as I felt his fingers slide carefully out of my body, then close softly over my femaleness.

We stayed like that a while, some unknown amount of time, with his one hand on my heart-center, the other on my yoni ( _and_ the seminar wins a convert to Tantric terminology!), until he released both, and slowly ran his fingers over my hair to clasp my cheek. I turned my face into his palm, catching the aromas of coconut oil, my own lotion, his cologne. I ended up resting with my head in his lap, zoning out as he stroked my hair, until I came somewhat back to myself. 

My head spun wildly, still hot with booze and swimming in the heady aftermath of getting dragged through the Mystical Orgasm Gateway, as I observed the other couples collecting themselves, some of the women still cuddling their partners, others sitting up, a few arranging sarongs about themselves. Suddenly a little self-conscious, I passed a hand over my tangled hair, and tugged the cover up a bit higher on my chest. Dick regarded me, not quite frowning, his eyes vividly blue and almost fevered, his face flushed, his chest inflated into a quivering barrel beneath his hoody. 

He cleared his throat. The sound startled me. “…How’re you doing?” he asked, his voice a husky murmur, scarcely hiding a slight tremor. 

“I’m—fine. Uh… Good. I’m good,” I stuttered, stumbling over words, finding even simple libretti impossible to articulate. My middle still trembled, sending little aftershocks through my limbs. I rubbed at my forehead, feeling my face go hot, all at once extremely aware of how _naked_ I was under the sarong—more so even than before. My chin threatened to start wobbling with my chattering teeth. Again, I adjusted the throw, trying to wrap my head around the fact that one of my best pals had just given me a mortifying, screaming orgasm in front of a room full of people. God, and he probably saw _everything_ I hid under that cover… 

I fretted. “You didn’t uh… um…”

“See anything?” he helpfully supplied.

I could feel myself blushing furiously as I nodded. “Yeah…”

He smiled, and shook his head. “No. I made sure I kept the blanket in place.”

Although I entertained some relief at this confession, I fought a hint of unexpected disappointment, too. _Weird…_ I thought. _Not that this whole thing isn’t weird to begin with._

Dick, again, held the sarong up for me so I could pull the Butters undies, leggings, and cami back on, and when Nik took over at the front to direct the male-focused part of the workshop, I returned the favor and held the sheet up for Dick so he could disrobe. I took those moments to inhale, exhale, and re-anchor myself. 

I oddly didn’t feel very nervous anymore, I realized as he stretched out under the linen where I had previously reclined, leaning his head on the same cushion. In fact, I felt pretty damn _good_. Dick shifted, looking a bit uncomfortable. When I positioned myself just behind him per Nik’s directive, I saw why—he was pitching a goddamn circus tent under that throw. I couldn’t help it. I cracked up and had to bury my face in my arm to avoid disrupting the generally hushed atmosphere.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he groaned ruefully under his breath.

“Kylo and Rey really do it for you, huh…” I whispered, teasing.

He smiled up at me, and I felt a strange sensation blossom through my chest when he said, “No, just you.”

The sensation, tickly and warm, spread into my cheeks, and I huffed an awkward laugh. “Well, now I _know_ you didn’t see anything…” I cracked lamely. 

“Oh, come on.” He reached up, and squeezed my wrist. “Stop.”

The pleasure at this unanticipated… _compliment_ tugged my lips into a girlish, involuntary smile, and I flushed even hotter, unsure of how to respond. I shifted my attention to listen to Nik as he spoke.

“Now, ladies,” he began, “I’ll start by saying that men _do_ have a slight tendency to be a little more visual—they appreciate _looking_ every bit as much as they do touching. That isn’t meant to generalize, but we _have_ noticed a trend toward that in our classes…”

I had a good idea of where _that_ was going, and my suspicions were confirmed when Nik mentioned it wouldn’t hurt to give our partners a bit of a visual prompt toward Arousal Town by way of losing our tops. Dick visibly darkened, and squirmed. He looked up at me, his eyelashes like black butterfly wings under his arched brows, his features dynamic in the lighting, devastating even in his discomposure.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered, a little frantically. “Do that, I mean.” 

I paused, thinking for a moment, not taking my eyes from his. 

“No… it’s okay,” I told him, quelling my own nerves, and fighting the urge to laugh at how his eyes about goggled out of his head. I cast a glance about the room, noticing that pretty much every chick there had tossed her shirt. I shrugged. “Everyone else is doing it, got to keep up with the cool kids, right?”

“…Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Fighting the nervous tremble of expectation that shivered in my hands, I pulled the cami over my head before I could change my mind, and, again, brushed my hair over my shoulders. 

Nik was talking, but I couldn’t make out what he said, all sounds lost on my ears as Dick wordlessly gazed up at me. I started to feel increasingly disconcerted, as though he just peeled away all of my skin and stared right into my freaking soul. I fidgeted a bit, intensely aware of my free-slinging breasts, nothing special in comparison to Mila’s. 

“What,” I whispered, feeling gross and stupid all at once.

He was silent a moment longer. 

“…You’re beautiful,” he said finally. 

Taken aback, I felt my cheeks go still hotter, and I whispered, “Uh, you need glasses…”

He smiled, shaken out of an apparent daze. He tapped his temple by his eye. “Nope. 20/20 vision.”

“Yeah, you _might_ want to have it checked.”

He shook his head. “Stop. Seriously.” He surprised me when he reached up, and passed his thumb over my cheek. “You’re gorgeous.”

A finger of giddiness tickled up my back, and I cinched the pleased, asinine grin that threatened to transform my face into a still from a David Lynch film, unexpectedly pleasuring in his words. 

The massage began, and I ran my hands through his hair (ahhhhh every bit as soft and luxurious as I’d thought it would be), turning my fingers in little rotations as Nik suggested, running my hands down over his neck, shoulders, arms. I bit back a chuckle when we were directed to pay attention to the nipples, but did as I was told, gratified when Dick’s chest lifted, and he arched into my touch. 

“Well, _that’s_ new,” he gasped, and laughed. I chuckled, satisfied. 

Considering that I was conducting this topless, I didn’t worry as much about disarranging the throw when I relocated to a seat between his outstretched legs, running my hands over his thighs, his abdomen. Respectfully, though, I left him otherwise covered as I picked out the ridges and snags that roadmapped his skin, all of them scars and half-healed marks, legacies of his life as Robin and Nightwing. I caressed each one, an action of my own volition, appreciating the extensive text of the rich history etched into his body, then following Nik’s instructions, I worked on Dick’s tense, knotted muscles. 

There was a sense of deep-seated companionability about this now, an easy, trusting candidness, one that stemmed from our preexisting closeness and that went beyond the booze-addled lack of inhibitions. I watched with enjoyment at how my touch singlehandedly alleviated his banged-up, knotted body, coaxing it into a heavy, restful form atop the throw. It was _empowering,_ even—soothing his tightly strung muscles, luring him into a tranquil, noiseless state. I veritably quavered with anticipation at returning not only the favor of this deep-relaxation, erotic massage, but of taking him to that Mystical Orgasm Gateway, hoping that I’d succeed in giving him just as earthshattering a Big O as he’d given me. 

And yeah… I kind of looked especially forward to satisfying my feverish curiosity about what he kept packed into those jeans beyond that legendary, perfect ass wrapped up neatly like a little chocolate bar, what lay hidden beneath the folds of the sarong. 

When the time _finally_ came, I re-lubed my hands in the bowl of coconut oil, positioned myself beside him, and as guided, laid my hand on his heart-center, feeling the steady, even downbeat beneath my palm, and, reaching beneath the sarong, rested my other on his inguen, softer now, hot. 

“Breathe, connect,” Nik said. “Meet each other’s eyes. Allow the warmth of your body to flow into him… and imagine that the boundary that separates your physical bodies disappears.”

I did, and felt entirely content as I gazed at him, feeling him lift under my touch, reaching past the length of my hand. I smiled at him, all at once nothing but happy, not even remotely bothering with thoughts of Wally observing in supposed horror from beyond the grave. 

Then, I drew the linen down as the next stage of the workshop began, and took in the full panorama of his physique—all of the beautiful line work that joined together and etched the shapes that made him _him._ I’ll level, here—as mentioned, Dick isn’t hurting in the appearance department, and if I said I didn’t occasionally giggle madly with my girlfriends on the team while speculating about the body he unfairly hid under his uniform or listen with rapt fascination as one of his exes regaled us with tales of his bedroom prowess, I’d bonk the shit out of a polygraph test. Finally _witnessing_ what I (and so many others) had admittedly kind of fantasized about—it didn’t disappoint. (Happy face!)

Jokingly, I held my hands up to create the facsimile of a camera, and mimicked the click of a camera shutter. He grinned at me, and murmured, “Five bucks a pop, and legit photos are yours.”

“Hey, I’d make a fortune rivaling your foster dad’s hocking those things on the Internet,” I said, “especially if you’re only charging five bucks.”

“Could we split the profits fifty-fifty?”

“It could be arranged,” I agreed.

He chuckled, and leaned his head back when Nik began instructions for the “Guide To a Happy Penis.” 

After laying a towel across Dick’s middle (I had to fight giggles over that—Wally once shot jizz about five feet across the room after an old-fashioned and, with this in mind, I failed to see how this safeguard would actually _do_ anything other than clean up after the fact), I listened to Nik, trying not to laugh at his terminologies. I ran my fingers along his “groin crease,” (really, dude—there wasn’t a better word for that…?) tracing circles much as Dick had, moving up and down, stroking. I initially wasn’t wild about the idea of tapping into his perineum (huh?), but then again, the nipples went over well, so I did, anyway—and was conciliated when he lifted his hips and hissed a sharp intake of breath. 

“Okay, that’s new, too…” he said, and issued a laugh that transformed into a satisfying little mewl when I kept going.

“Now comes the best bit—move over to his penis,” Nik continued, “and hold it in your hands… Start to gently squeeze and stroke… Keep it slow— _really_ slow for now.”

 _Took this long enough,_ I thought, and barely contained myself as I shifted over Dick, and gleefully closed my hand around his beautiful erection, lengthy and thick-ish and resistant. In spite of my excitement and eagerness to just go to town and start pumping him into imitating a fire hose, I stayed gentle, following directions, stroking and pressing— _slowly_ , girls, _slowly._ A bubble of pleasure bloomed in my middle as he arched his back, lifting his hips, his respiration quickening.

“Ask your gent what he prefers now, hard, fast, soft, slow,” Nik suggested.

I acquiesced, giving Dick a properly querying expression. He liked it a little harder, although not necessarily faster. With some exhilaration, I obliged, still thrilling at the feeling of his manhood in my hands, at the sight of his body uncovered in all its glory atop the throw, all long, sleek muscle and smooth skin and dark hair, at our monumental daring and indecency. When he made a somewhat bashful request about speeding things up, I was all too happy to indulge him. 

“Wait—wait—slow down,” he gasped suddenly after a time.

I tapered off in my ministrations, not wanting to, looking askance at him. I hadn’t been busting out fast motions for very long.

“I won’t make it to the end of this seminar if you keep going like that,” he explained, adorably flushed and looking contrite. 

“Oh.” I chuckled. “Well, this _is_ an orgasm seminar,” I went on good-naturedly. “I’m obviously not going to judge you if you blow your load.” I lit on something, and smiled happily. “It’d actually be a pretty massive ego stroke if I got you off in under a minute with a handy.”

He smirked. “Uh-huh.” He waved a hand. “Oh, look, a Dick who comes too fast—how original.”

I laughed out loud, and tuned into Nik. 

So—I never knew there were so many different and weird ways to stroke a penis hitherto. Seeing them performed in the first half of the class was something of a mindblow. Actually _doing_ them was even more of one. We were presented with myriad tricks, all of them catered to specific member types; i.e. circumcised or unsnipped. Fun fact: Dick is the former. I listened to Nik’s guidance, and ran my hands from the base of Dick’s lingam (or if you'd rather, wiener, ding dong, tallywhacker, schlong... whatever you want to call it), all the way up along its length, and released, then repeated these motions, until trying a new method, the opposite, beginning at the head of his erection and drawing my hands down, one at a time. I got aroused all over again when, following instructions, I cupped the shaft and pulled my grip down to the base, stringing the rigid core entirely taut, and then “juiced” the crown, circling my hold around it, massaging the “frenulum” and “corona,” (hot spots I knew existed, but never had the proper names for.) Dick pressed his face into the cushion, muffling his rapid breath. His abdomen visibly undulated, his thighs shaking with strain. I resisted the desire to lean down and close my lips over the purpling, swollen plum that apexed his manhood when I heard him moan, the sound seeming every bit as involuntary as mine had been, his voice muted in the folds of the pillow. Everything in me went live, my nerves once more lighting up like a Christmas tree, as Dick’s hips rocked and turned, his body arching into a shuddering protraction, his back curved and shaking, his jaw working and his neck slung so far back that I almost couldn’t see his face. I gently encouraged him to flatten against the ground—somehow, I wanted to _see_ him when his moment arrived. 

“Boys, if this next part, the ‘Pavlov’s O,’ gets you off, don’t feel bad,” Nik was saying. “This bit not only engages your sexual side, but your sentimental side, as well. It’s a rare romantic doesn’t finish at this next segment.”

I listened, attending to his words, drinking them in, not taking my eyes off of Dick, and following the instructions from the front. I gathered him into my hand, turning my grasp in circles, pressing his hardness against his belly, while I massaged gentle rotations over his heart-center at the same time, feeling in some such way deific and as though I manipulated the very building blocks of the solar system as Dick gasped, stiffened, jerked—

“Oh, shit—” he hissed.

And then, as his words morphed into an inarticulate expression and a rapid and abrupt series of jolts and tremors pitched through his lingam, I felt that telltale pulsing, powerful and wild, in my grip, followed by the feeling of the warm, stringy fluid as it spattered Pollock-style over my hands and the towel. His chest heaved, his spine twisted, and he went ramrod stiff, his fists white-knuckling the throw that bunched around his legs, and then, at last, he collapsed to his back, lying there quivering, catching his breath.

Triumphantly, I straightened, and wiped my hands on the towel. Looking around, I discovered with some discomfiture that every eye in the room was, for whatever reason, trained on us—including those of Nik and Mila. I became very, _very_ aware of my bare tits just staring back at everybody, and of Dick as he lay completely exposed and unraveled in front of me. What the heck—no one (that I was aware of) stared like total creepers at us when I blasted my way into the orgasm stratosphere. I fidgeted and covered my boobs with my forearm. Before I could present a general query as to why the literal hell everyone was so focused on us both, a smattering of applause broke out. My jaw slowly parted in mounting confusion.

“Well done,” Nik said, looking pleased, a big, sparkly grin across his handsome face. “ _Very_ well done, that’s the first orgasm for this portion, good job!”

I blushed so hard you could probably see the glowing beacon of my cheeks from outer space, and I self-consciously gave a half-smile and wave sort of motion in response to all the praise and compliments from my fellow attendees before it all tapered off and they returned to jerking each other off. Dick, only just coming around, grabbed a nearby cushion and covered his face with it. 

“Ohhhh, my God, that’s so fucking embarrassing,” he moaned into the pillow. He slammed it to the floor, and made as if to rise. “Excuse me, I have to go die now.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s not like _I_ had any dignity when it was my turn, so… how about we just go sign up for ritual sacrifice together?” I suggested, stalling his would-be hasty, nude exit. I kept my voice low to avoid disturbing the other patrons. 

He raised his eyebrows, his expression somewhere between amused and iniquitous. “…Don’t they sacrifice virgins?”

“…Blonde virgins.” I quirked my lip. “Well, I’m halfway there. They’d laugh _your_ Romany-Black Irish ass out of the park, though…” I shrugged. “Sorry?”

“Well, crap.” He sat up, and draped the sarong over his lap. “Happy Thanksgiving, and I’m going to die alone.”

I laughed. “Well, since we’re both dying of embarrassment here, I _don’t_ think dying alone is necessary… Tell you what, I’ll croak right by you with the carcass of my expired vibrator instead of signing myself up for the altar, how’s that.”

He grinned. “Are you going to be buried with that thing?”

I nodded. “Um, yeah, Smilla’s only my best friend—”

“Smilla the Vibrator?” He covered his face as he snickered.

“Yes, Smilla the Vibrator,” I replied huffily, “except I think she’s been demoted now.”

“Oh?”

I caught myself. “Yeah, uh…” I fumbled. “Useful life skills learned here, you know.” I held up my hands. “Artemis and Big O, five ever.”

He smiled, but didn’t say anything. Twitchy, and having run out of clever things to say to cover the quiet, building maelstrom that seethed inside me somewhere deep beneath the surface, I busied myself pulling my hair back into its holder. Dick reached for his clothes, and, still seated, dressed in silence. I kept my eyes averted, only permitting myself one peek at the smooth planes of his back before forcibly averting my eyes. The sounds of moaning and orgasming men surrounded us. I tugged at my ponytail.

We spent the rest of the workshop in a conspiracy of silence, intermittently pulling the remaining articles of our clothing back on, not really meeting each other’s gazes, equally avoiding focusing on the other seminar students. I felt a little funny, although I couldn’t really discern what nature of funny I felt. Antsy, charged, flummoxed, indecisive. A Van Gogh “Starry Night” swirl of emotions circled, pirouetted, shifted within me, manifold, daunting even to consider picking through and evaluating. I chewed my lip, fighting the clinging drunkenness that stunted my thinking. 

When everything wrapped up, Dick and I headed over to the table in the back to peruse the wares for sale; probably as much to avoid talking as to shop. As I picked up the book Nik and Mila had penned (and which, apparently, sported even more nifty ways to generate mindblowing orgasms), Dick asked if I wanted it.

“Umm…” I considered. “You know what, yeah. Hmm, and that oil, while I’m at it. ’Bye, Smilla…”

I was about to dig my wallet out of my bag, when he with remarkable efficiency produced his own billfold, counted out the requisite cash, and handed it to Mila as she smiled. I hadn’t even shifted my purse to dig through it. I eyeballed him, ready to punt him into next week. I’ve never been overly comfortable with generosity—and Dick, my not-boyfriend, buying me a fucking orgasm book and a bottle of “clitoral stimulation oil” screamed of unparalleled weirdness.

“So, did you enjoy the workshop?” Mila asked me, startling me out of my determined Penance Stare. I shook myself. 

“Yeah,” I replied. “Yeah, it was um… It was interesting.” I laughed. 

She nodded. “Yes, this can be a little new for some. But you both took to it pretty naturally.”

“I probably took to it a little _too_ naturally,” Dick said humorously. 

Mila’s smile widened. “Oh, don’t feel silly about being the first to achieve your orgasm, especially given the nature of Pavlov’s O,” she said. She was surprisingly warm and engaging, and I found myself unexpectedly taking to her the more she spoke. “It just means you’re super-romantic, and honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that at all.”

“It doesn’t contradict my macho image?” 

“Of course not,” Mila laughed. “You’re too good-looking to be a macho moron, anyway. And really, it wasn’t that surprising—the two of you just _radiate_ true love. Like the connection between you both is very apparent. You’re lucky.”

I squirmed, torn between protesting and falling into gales of laughter. Dick saved me from having to reply when he said, congenially and without even a hint of being unsettled, “Yes, we are. Thanks for everything.”

He accepted his change, and I fell into step beside him as we left. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” I berated him when he handed me the bag with the book and oil in it on our way to the elevators.

“Sure I did. I mean, we _do_ radiate true love,” he cracked, pressing the button once inside. 

I smirked. “So you’re obligated to buy me stuff?”

He shrugged. “More I wanted to remit you of any responsibility when you inform Smilla she’s been laid off.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was giving her a pink slip or anything—I’m just spicing things up a bit,” I protested. “She’s probably exhausted by now, anyway… She’ll at least appreciate the break.” I paused. “Right?”

“I think she’ll understand,” he said. He laughed as I followed him out of the elevator. “I love how your vibrator’s a girl.”

“Yeah, I don’t know, she just looked like a Smilla,” I explained, then paused. “I mean, I haven’t been with a girl before, but I’ve always heard chicks say that dudes could never make them come like other chicks or vibrators do, so…” I lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, it just seemed obvious Smilla was a girl.” 

“Is that true?”

“That girls and vibrators are better at making women come than dudes?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Uh… Well, I _used_ to think so,” I said, and felt myself—once again—going red in the face. I fought the blast of cold air that assaulted us as we headed outside.

Well, there was no hiding it anymore as we walked aimlessly along the sidewalk, huddling against the nasty weather. No more goofing, no more instances of levity, no more masking our collective awkwardness with companionability. The events of the preceding hours had happened—and there was no unhappening them. The discomfiting knowledge that we’d crossed a line somewhere—some unspoken Friend Zone agreement or another, an action that would require rigorous renegotiation and a hasty drafting of a new and possibly more stringent treaty—hovered between us, a ball of discomfort and uncertainty, a boxful of unease and a shift in what was among my most valued friendships.

There was another sense that I couldn’t quite shake loose of, something that threatened to pop the lid off of an even more unsettling can of worms—we had _Touched_ one another, capitalized, in italics, and (to me, at least) it felt like nothing shy of _souls_ touching, in some metaphysical, extraterrestrial way, without ever having even _kissed_. Or considered it, even. 

I dwelled fitfully on that, watching my black Converse shuffling alongside his electric blue ones, our semi-matching shoes. Neither of us spoke, the disquiet palpable and mounting, as we beat some directionless path through the Upper East End. I looked over at him periodically, keeping my glances surreptitious. Damn, but he looked good, I realized ruefully—his hair was all messy and windblown, dampened with coconut oil and snow, his face lit from within with the illumination unique to the post-orgasmic afterglow. His lips were enticing, framed with that attractive stubble, brushed in little melting frostlets. 

_Ugh, don’t go there, Artemis,_ I berated myself. _Stay in reality. Where the ghost of Wally threatens to fuck with Dick’s toilets and where the opinions of your venerated teammates and friends and mentors hang in the balance._

But once the thought got rolling, I couldn’t halt it. I couldn’t even slow it down. It just mowed me over like a giant snowball. Would kissing prove to be a pardon for what we’d done? Did I consider it because I thought it would somehow render okay the fact that we’d just been given first-row seats to each other’s private assets, gotten our hands all up in one another’s business, and done something terrifically intimate and generally reserved for romantic partners or at the _least_ consensual fuck buddies? Was it a feeling that things were incomplete? Or was it something—and here I felt my heart fly to my neck and reverberate at the pulse points of my jaw—I actually _wanted?_

Before that potentially uncomfortable parade of thoughts could continue marching through my brain, blowing its horns and beating its drums, I realized that Dick’s apartment was, again, in sight. My steps slowed even as his did, and we drew to an unspeaking halt in front of the wooden steps that led up to his loft on the uppermost floor. 

I wasn’t sure of the whole “what next” thing, and I vacillated, trying to light on something to say. I failed, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. 

“So, uh…” he began, perhaps a bit ungracefully. 

The fact was that we had two options laid out in front of us, each with its own set of sub-options. He could either keep me company as I Zeta’ed back to Gotham or Palo Alto (and, frankly, after the events of the evening, no way was I going within a hundred miles of the apartment I shared with Wally for a while, so Gotham it was) and A: call it a night, or B: (saints preserve us) keep the ball from before rolling while trying not to alert my mother to Dick’s presence in her home. Or, we could head up to his place and A: Try to pretend that nothing happened and binge-watch the episodes of _Game of Thrones_ we’d missed, or B: The same as the other Option B, only without having to worry about the noise level or maternal concern. Assuming, of course, that he was game for it.

Obviously—neither of us was going to actually _voice_ either of the options or sub-options. 

“I’ll call you!” I offered, a lame effort at a joke.

He grinned, and in the lengthy pause that followed, something about the way his face flushed in the snow and how his body language just looked uncharacteristically tentative knocked down whatever vestiges of a barrier I’d kept in place until that moment. Before he could speak, before I could stay my actions, before I could even consider the implications of them, I dropped my bags and launched myself at him. I bound my arms around his waist, pressed my cheek into his chest, just above his heart, and leaned in, getting as close as I physically could. 

There was a heart-stopping moment that he didn’t quite react, but then, with a sense of deep, deep satisfaction, I felt his arms encircle me, drawing up over my back, his hand resting at the nape of my neck, the form and shape of his body melting into mine. I just held him tighter, determined now not to stop in anything that would follow, keenly aware that I didn’t care a lick about consequences or complications or aftermath— _I wanted him._

I poured everything of myself into that embrace. I can’t tell you how many times Dick and I had hugged leading up to then, other than that we’d hugged a _lot._ This, though, was different, _so_ different—the first of its kind, the opening of a previously dust-catching, page-stuck book. I felt his heart quickening, rippling through his entire frame, sensed the vibrations in his muscles as he drew back.

 _Please, please, please…_ I silently begged the universe, looking up at him, feeling the unsteadiness in my stance as I wavered under his beautiful eyes. 

How long had I been curious to _know_ him in this way, I wondered suddenly, to touch him like this, and… had I _always_ been curious? Had he? I loved him, of course—he was easily one of my dearest friends, and I had often told him as much. But... really, how deeply did that love truly run? Was this something that we’d _both_ wanted before this night, but never dared even consider? Wally would have thrown him in front of Deathstroke’s sword if he knew Dick so much as idly pondered the idea of borrowing the image of me for fap fodder over his morning coffee. My breath puffed rapid and silver on the freezing air, wanting so much to take the next step, fearing it—but innately knowing that it had already been taken, when neither of us was looking.

His hand cupped my cheek, covering my ear, his fingers lacing in my hair, loosening my ponytail. He gently angled my face higher, his own hovering close. I felt the heat of his breath, its punch soft and sweet, both of us unmoving, in suspended animation under the falling snow and the weight of what was undeniably going to come next. We stood like that for what seemed a stretch to Judgment Day, his face not even an inch from me, stalling eternally on taking that earth-shaking step, until— _finally—_ he closed his lips over mine. 

It started slowly enough—just a partially innocent, exploratory motion that was PG-rated and tender—but it accelerated _fast._ Within seconds of this first touch, his mouth had opened, and I felt his tongue, his stubble as it brushed my chin, the soft pressure of his teeth as he tugged at my lower lip. I could still taste the Fireball, the cinnamon Altoids. In turn, I rose up, dissolving into him, pulling at his tongue, his lips with my own, questing, my hands bunching up in the folds of his coat.

He pulled away for one agonizing moment. “Do you want to come up—”

“Yes,” I cut him off with fervor, both of us breathless and heated, my heart flying in my chest.

And, with that, all bets were off. 

I’m shocked even now that we made it up to his apartment and inside—and got the door completely closed, although Dick fumbled with it for a second—before we started tearing at each other’s clothing, frantically working to disrobe each other, unable to do so fast enough, kissing wildly and loudly and sloppily and not caring if we were heard by neighbors or seen by the whole of the Upper East Side through the floor-to-ceiling window that made up an entire wall of his living room. The snow-dusted outerwear hit the floor with frenzied abandon, followed by my sweater, his hoody. 

I went to my knees like a zealous proselyte and yanked at his belt buckle, tugging his jeans open. When his gorgeous lingam sprang free of the confines of his clothing, I desperately wanted to just haul up and swallow him down, but I also wanted with utmost sincerity to use the little tricks and suggestions I’d just learned only a scant while ago—so, exercising something of a suffering patience, I pulled the petal-soft suede of the skin at the base of his erection taut, hearing with gratification the expulsion of breath from his lungs, and with even greater joy, the sort of huff-slash-moan that followed when I enfolded my lips over the dome of his hardness. I rolled my tongue in careful, measured circles over the corona, flitting over and mapping the shape of that slick, tumid head, teasing the frenulum, and then accepted him wholly, passing the eyelet of my mouth over his burgeoning length. 

“Oh, Jesus—” I heard him hiss, and, emboldened, I continued, amplifying my motions, relishing the feeling of his hands in my hair as they clutched at its tresses, his motions tangibly involuntary, dislodging my ponytail and freeing it about my face and shoulders. I snaked my free hand past the listing waist of his jeans, indulging in a handful of his perfect ass. I about floated off the ground and soared when I felt him leap, twitch—

“Stop—stop,” he whispered, jerking away. 

I acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, releasing him, catching a breath as he reached down and drew me up, meeting my lips head-on with his grip at my underarms. He moved me to my back atop the polished wood of the floor, halfway across the corner of the area rug. He knelt over me, taking my cami and, in one easy motion, pulling it neatly over my head to toss it aside. I reached up, and did the same with the tee-shirt he wore, a lance of screaming exhilaration bolting through my core as he shed the remainder of his clothing. Even in the dim lighting from the string lights under the cabinetry that lined the ceiling of the lowermost half of the apartment, I could pick out every detail of that fabulous body, all of the clean planes and slopes, the near-immaculate skin, the marks and scars only emphasizing its otherwise airbrushed smoothness, the prominent firmness beneath the tidy shock of black hair. He bent over me, pressing his lips to mine, lingering there, before he drew away.

“Your turn,” he murmured, and as the excitement swelled in my center, he moved his lips to my throat, my breasts, my belly. He swept the leggings away, and abruptly cracked up when he saw the Butters undies. 

“Nice,” he said, as I got giggling, too.

“Yeah, I can’t say I expected to wind up in such a compromising spot when I got dressed this morning,” I said in a lighthearted effort at defending my lingerie choices. 

“Ummm, apparently you did and you’ve been talking to my exes,” he said, grinning up at me, supporting his weight on his forearms. I felt my chest stir and quiver as the heat of his breath warmed the panties. “Hmm, well, I can tell you what Butters wouldn’t do…”

His fingers tucked into the elastic at my hips, tugging the garment down over my thighs. I lent an assist and kicked poor, hapless Butters away, shaking with anticipation as Dick delved to my middle, shifting upward, my legs draping over his shoulders. His elbows locked at my waist, his hands spread over my abdomen. Again, I felt the warmth of his feverish respiration blooming over the aperture at my thighs, baiting, torturing. My head dropped with an undignified thud to the floor, my back arching with my rising hips as he at last engulfed my womanhood. His lips funneled down, opened, and I felt the wing of his tongue as it unfolded the fabric of my femininity, fluttering at the inlet, drawing up and stroking that all-important knot. I gasped, fought vainly to find purchase with my grasping hands, off-balance and unanchored with my legs splayed impotently over his shoulders. The sights of the room blurred into abstract nebulae as I lost myself in the bellowing sensations that shrieked through my body, my head swirling in reeling circles. It hedged on more than I could bear, and I felt my mouth fall open and my throat fire cry after cry into the suddenly oppressive air of the loft. My hips tossed when his tongue sank into me, questing deep, fanning, the force of his lips teasing my outermost nerves. 

I all but sobbed his name as I surrendered to it, brought to a screaming, insanity-inducing, acid-burning brink when he pulled a trick on me that I’d never experienced (sucking _hard_ at my clit, then chasing that with equally hard pressure from his tongue— _that_ move and combo was a new one.) When I hit that cataclysmal finale, for the second time that night brought to a supernova of incendiary sensation, I _know_ I woke the damn dead, screaming in that tidal wave of cosmic delirium.

I disseminated atop the flooring, taking in one ragged breath after another, my legs numb and cumbrous across his shoulders, heavy and unfeeling as they slid open when he rose up. He passed the back of his hand over his dampened mouth, and leaned over me, his movements slow and patient, lending me a little time and space to replevy my senses before he kissed me, his lips deferential, soft. I lay locked in a sort of slow motion world beneath him, overpowered and vulnerable in a way that somehow enthralled and vitalized me, a feeling simultaneously terrifying and delicious. 

I sensed his weight on me, braced by his elbows; felt his hands in my hair, his kiss gentle and fervent all at once. My lungs undulated when I took notice of his closeness—entrenched in my ingress, one bearing away from collapsing the final wall between us. 

I gazed up at him in the low light, aware of my chest as it rose and fell, aware of his as it did the same, of the contact of our skin, of the pressure growing at my center. 

“Dick,” I murmured, _needing_ to express something to him, unable to go on with anything until I did. He paused, his abdomen melding easily into mine. 

“I just… wanted you to know,” I went on, my voice husky. “I’m not… I won’t regret this. Any of it.”

He stared down at me, looking as though he wanted to say something, for a long moment in the wake of that fatal proclamation. I waited, but he didn’t speak—instead, he kissed me, in a way that intuitively communicated such a magnitude of emotion that I knew couldn’t be spoken—not without breaking everything about _us_ that I knew to be true. I laid my hands on his waist, drawing him closer to me still. I consumed his lips, his tongue, wordlessly grateful that he had held it, leaving its words in their safe, silent prison—but also wishing, in some way, that he hadn’t, longing to _know_. I moved my hands to his hips as he bore down, slowly— _so_ slowly, embedding himself in the tightening threshold of my autonomy, not quite there, probing, entreating admittance, refusing to intrude. 

I recalled Mila’s words, and, with a subtle squeeze, provided my invitation—and then, with the impression that for one moment I saw through space and time, I contracted fully, and took him in. 

My breath expelled itself from my throat, mingling with his in a balmy steam, as we purled together, and lay for a moment. Then, he glissaded with a little rocking motion, gentle, experimental. I slid my hands from his hips to his buttocks, moving with him, rising as he fell, ebbing as he waned. I twined my legs over his, wrapping them around him, drawing him in deeper still with each inward glide. This slow cadence progressively hastened, snowballing into a rhythmic, primitive dance, his hips rolling in time with my pleading, reflexive moans, his movements strengthening—but remaining docile, sensitive. Growing impatient, I swept my hands up the planes of his back, digging my fingertips into his flesh, arching my spine, flexing the muscles of my interior around him, pressing my teeth into his lower lip. _Everything_ in me is wired to fight, even when it comes to lovemaking. Wally was every bit as passionate and headstrong as I am—and sex was another battle of wills we continually waged against one another, one more debate in the combative language of our tempestuous romance. Unaccustomed to Dick’s mellower, more gradual approach, longing to just unleash and race across this new landscape with him, I moved my mouth to his ear.

“Dick,” I breathed, _“please—_ fuck me harder—”

He paused for a bare, maddening moment, and stared down at me, the indigo of his eyes febrile, wild. 

“You sure?” he said, his voice guttural and breathless. 

“I’m sure... _please,_ just do it,” I murmured heatedly, and held my breath when I felt his lips on my earlobe, my jaw, my neck. He rocked once, twice—and then to my unfathomable delight, he was out of the gate in a magnificent burst. 

He thrust powerfully, vigorously, hammering into me with an unrestrained fury that felt like bittersweet punishment, releasing the passion that I _knew_ he’d been holding in check. I rose up, lacing my arms under his, colliding with his mouth, looping my legs around his middle. I swept my hands down his spine, raked my nails up his back, smiling at the feeling of his muscles as they tensed beneath my fingers. I inhaled his outbreath, nipped his lower lip, reveling in the impact of his hips as he pounded into me all the harder for it. 

I gasped and felt my heart about blast itself into space when he abruptly pushed me away, twisting me to my front, then yanking me up to my hands and knees by the middle and taking me again, all in a series of seamless, effortless motions. Electrified, I lifted up and pressed my back to his chest, relishing his touch as he drew his arm up over my front, locking at my shoulder. I grasped a handful of his hair, twisting my fingers in it, opening my mouth and pulling at his tongue. I threw my head back and moaned into his ear when his free hand slid down the plane of my abdomen, closing over my sex, caressing the alluvium of its sensories, dragging me rapidly into the center of that massive star as it blazed into a terrible radiance, then exploded all over again—blinding and incinerating me, pulling a rasping, throaty, echoing refrain of screams from my ballooning lungs. I arched, bellowed, shook, and fell into him, fighting ineffectively to recover, again lost and bewildered. My arms went flaccid, drooping confused to my sides, reaching briefly and ineffectually for something unseen. I whimpered, entirely helpless beneath the onslaught as he pushed me down, pressed his chest to my back, and closed his hands over mine, imprisoning me against the floor, and lashed his furious rhythm. It hurt now, but in a way that brought my continuing peak to an endless ripple of seismic aftershocks that left me crying with pleasure into the rug beneath my cheek, riding every wave with an unceasing joy. 

I inhaled, piecing back together somewhat, as he slowed and rose up, taking his weight with him. He encouraged me to turn to my back, and, his movements again sensitive and gentle, he slid into my shaking, spasming body, gathering my lower lip into a soft tug between his teeth. I held him about his shoulders, pressed my face into his neck, and rode it out as his report again quickened, and he ground his hips into mine with increasing urgency. He respired frantically, his muscles straining so powerfully a part of me feared they’d snap, and I tightened my embrace, holding him together, steadying the querulousness with my remaining strength. I drew in his every keen and sigh, breathing them in, feeding them. He was close—I could feel it building in him, mounting, rising, ravenous and ready to consume us both in its earthshattering landslide.

He made a low, humming sound, rousingly vulnerable, and breathed, “Ohhh, I’m gonna come—” 

I laced a hand in his hair. “It’s okay, I’m on the pill.” 

His eyes darkened, holding mine, and he moaned, the sound fraught and suppliant. “Oh, God—”

This word morphed into an overpowered cry that reverberated through my bones. I gripped his shoulders in my hands, clinching my legs about his waist, pulling him in deep and rolling with every paroxysm, drinking in the feeling of him as he shivered and jerked and poured into me. With a last, almighty twitch, his body stiffened and locked, and then gave out entirely and collapsed his chassis in a quivering, moaning ruin. His heaviness warmed my own shaking, overwrought form, the cinnamony stroke of his breath blooming over my neck. We lay silent, still interwoven, his presence within me softening, receding.

“Well,” Dick said into the quiet after a while, still atop me, still inside me. “…That certainly happened.”

I chuckled a little, jarred back to reality. “Yeah. Yeah, that certainly did.”

“We finger-banged each other in front of an entire room of people, too…”

I grinned. “And got complimented on our true love…”

“And my lack of stamina.” 

“Come off it,” I said, satisfied. “You’re a stud.”

He smiled at me, and I warmed through, feeling oddly fuzzy, as he ran his fingers through my hair. 

“Shit. I’d better put the plumber on speed dial,” he blurted suddenly. 

I busted up laughing. “Oh, yeah, your toilets are so fucked.”

“…Actually, I think I might call in the Ghostbusters, because I’m pretty sure Wally’s just going to straight-up bust an ectoplasm cap in my ass.”

I started singing, somehow unperturbed by reminders of Wally. “When there’s something strange… In your neighborhood…”

He joined me. “Who you gonna call!” 

The facetiousness tapered off, and he shifted his face close to mine, and kissed me. It was slow, soft. No open mouths, no tongue. I relaxed when it ended, listening to our breathing as it settled. 

He angled to his back after a time, extricating from me with a sigh, and I turned to rest on his chest for a moment. I caught myself thinking on all the times we’d embraced previously, and on how my past self would have reacted if I’d time-traveled and mentioned that this would happen, drowsy beneath his touch as he stroked my hair. 

“It’s cold in here,” I muttered, nestling down into him, pilfering his warmth. 

“Oh, yeah, this place gets drafty,” Dick agreed. He patted my shoulder, and sat up. “I’ll go turn the heat up.”

I sat up as he rose. I was still somewhat drunk, stumbling around in the low lighting from the cabinetry and leaning against the back of the sofa to relocate and pull my panties and cami back on. I shamelessly sneaked a look as Dick tugged his boxers up over the tantalizing muscles of his bare ass, and fought a smile. I wondered for a moment over how bad my hangover would be the following day, and then, uncomfortably, if I’d feel guilty or unsettled, if I _would_ regret this—contrary to the words I had spoken before the deed was done. 

I pushed that thought down and slapped a lid on it as Dick fiddled with the thermostat, and then, together, we headed up the steps to the garret bedroom that overlooked the main area of the apartment, and sacked out on his bed. I cuddled down into his side, comforted in his closeness, as he drew one of the throw blankets over us both, the air around us still chilly, as yet unaffected by the working furnace.

We companionably relaxed and marathoned _Over the Garden Wall,_ a belated tribute to Halloween. We sang with the songs, at ease as we goofed around, and, per my norm, I cried at the end, my tears aggravated by the alcohol and post-coitus. (Dick was kind enough not to tease me about it.) Afterward, we sprawled out under his sheets, a tapestry of woven limbs and matching rhythm of easy breathing, and fell asleep there in the soft glow of the television. 

*******

My head hurt, but not terribly. I felt queasy, but not nauseous. I was tired, but not exhausted.

In other words, I was hungover—but barely. Meaning… I wasn’t as drunk as I thought I was. 

Well, that opened a whole new bag of issues. I turned to my back, staring up at the ceiling as it glared accusingly at me, perfect in its snow-white purity. I glowered up at its judging surface, and then turned my attention to the window. Outside, it was gray and rainy, the snow having devolved sometime in the night. I sighed, and bunched up beneath the sheets. The mattress under me was pillow-soft, molding around my form, the covers luxurious, the pillows and down comforter like big, fluffy clouds. _Rich person bedding,_ I thought amusedly, and with that, I finally dared a glance to my left.

Dick slept sprawled on his front like someone tossed him there and covered him up with the duvet. His hair fanned out over the pillowcase in a black veil, the smooth skin of his back catching the light as he breathed. Definitely _not_ the hair color I was accustomed to encountering in bed beside me. I passed a hand over my face, and ground my fingers into my forehead.

 _So last night happened,_ I realized, registering the soreness in my womanly areas, the correlated shakiness in my legs. _It wasn’t some alcohol-induced wet dream._

I sat up, propped against the pillows, and half-zeroed in on the television that still ran in the dim room. It was warmer in there by then, a comfortable temperature, safe and cozy against the lousy weather. I twisted a corner of the sheet in my hands, watching, but not paying a lot of attention to the old episode of _Regular Show_ that played via Hulu on the screen _._

The bed creaked a bit as Dick stirred, shifting his weight. He sighed, turned to his back. I sat, baited and uneasy as he opened his eyes, and then relaxed a little when he caught sight of me and smiled. 

“Hey,” he said, still a bit groggy, looking unfairly charming with his messed up hair and sleepy face. I self-consciously ran a hand over my own hair.

“Hi,” I said, my tone measured. 

He sat up, and rubbed at his temples. “Want some coffee?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I could kill a pot.”

He patted my hand. “All right, hang on.”

Dick shuffled out of the sheets, and made his fetching way downstairs in his boxer shorts while I stayed in bed, fighting a sense of being stranded, with no lifeboat, compass, or fresh water. I heard him clattering around in the main area below, and if I craned my neck, I could see him from my perch. I watched him a moment, taking a meditative breath as I dwelled on the events of the night before, starting a bit when he ran the coffee grinder. 

So… It was a Thing. Dick and I had Done the Deed, Knocked the Boots. Had sex, made love, fucked. Whatever. I felt my interior about disintegrate when I recalled the goddamn orgasm class. _Oh, God…_ I thought, all at once mortified to a phenomenal degree and considering a move to Pluto, _I have literally_ no _dignity left after all this…_

I heaved a tremendous sigh, and covered my face with one hand, running in mental circles. The embarrassment at having a screaming orgasm in front of a room full of people was a whole separate bag of beans, but one I’d get past quickly enough, given that I’d never see those people again (or at the least, the likelihood of seeing them was exceptionally low.) If it had been something I’d done with a legit boyfriend, I doubted I’d even be thinking twice about it, beyond considering using the nifty tricks I’d learned. However… the spot I found myself in when thinking on coexisting with Dick—my not-boyfriend—after he’d shared in what was effectively public indecency and _then_ gone on to spectacularly lick my pussy and come inside me (Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!) made me feel like finding a hole somewhere in the Arctic and burying myself in it. And on the flip, I found myself pinballing between feeling overwhelmingly remorseful and sickened at myself when entertaining how this would make Wally feel if he were to reappear tomorrow, and realizing that, if I just left Wally out of the equation, I really didn’t feel badly about it—at _all._ I might even have felt exhilarated. Happy, even. (The scandal!)

Somehow, though, this lack of regret unsettled me far more than disturbance and compunction would have. It forewarned of _feelings_ —and I wasn’t at all sure I was ready to have such things so much as whispered in my ear. That only yesterday marked Wally’s would-be twenty-fourth birthday rendered the idea that much more vulgar, more stomach-turning. The urge came over me to just explode through the door of the apartment and sprint through the streets, barefoot and breakneck, careening through the sleet until I outran every one of the clawing, faceless, wailing emotions that threatened to overtake me and drag me into a neverland of unknown, frightening possibility. I drew in a rattling breath, anchoring myself. 

I leaned my elbow on my bent knee and rested my head on my hand as Dick reentered the garret room with the coffee. I smiled halfheartedly, and accepted my cup. 

“Ah, sweet and rich, like I like my men,” I gaffed happily, sniffing it. I perked up and took a sip, then sighed appreciatively. Dick had made the brew how I liked it, with a good-ish amount of sugar and a touch of cream. I might have regretted the unintended relevance of the joke, except I’d made it a hundred times before. He chuckled, and sat down by me.

“So… How’re you feeling?” he asked.

I considered, and unconsciously rubbed at my forehead. “Eh, I’m all right. A little headachy and nauseous.”

He smiled. “That wasn’t quite what I meant, but I’ll take it.”

“…Oh.” I rubbed at my hair a bit. “Yeah, so… About that. Yeah.” 

He gave me an awkward look. “Yeah…?”

I made a face. I wasn’t so sure about talking about the events of the night prior—at least, not quite yet. “Yeah…”

He laughed, and, disarmed, I did, too, as he said with gusto, “Yeah!”

I sobered, and shook my head. “Um… What happens in Bludhaven stays in Bludhaven?”

“You got it.” He reached over, and covered my hand with his. “Listen… Let’s not worry about it for right now. Okay?” 

I half-smiled and nodded, eyeing the steaming coffee in my free hand. “…Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

I thought about it, and realized that yes, when I sifted through the foam of queasiness, I was _famished._

“Yeah, actually,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since like, noonish yesterday…”

He stared at me, and laughed. “Jeez, Artemis—I’m kind of shocked you didn’t chew my arm off last night. Or other things.” 

I giggled, and passed a hand over my face. 

“You want to head out and go get breakfast?” he asked, then glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Or lunch, or brunch, or whatever you call it at eleven.”

I felt my half-smile grow into a full-blown one. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Once we’d finished our coffee, sipped in easy, amiable silence, we got dressed, and, armed with an umbrella this time, stepped out of the loft. 

*******

Standing at the steps that led to the entryway to my mom’s apartment building in Gotham, shielded by the fan of the umbrella, stuffed full of cinnamon rolls and more coffee, I looked up at Dick.

“Well,” I said, “see you later?”

He smiled at me. I felt my chest tingle as I smiled back. 

We had spent a good many hours at the coffee shop, partly hiding from the weather, and partly just keeping company. We talked buoyantly, comfortably—really, no differently than we might have any other time. The longer the conversation went on without impediment, the easier I felt, and the less fearful I became of the days, weeks, and months that were to come in the wake of that titanic, magnificently impulsive decision the night before. We even chatted over the class itself, recalling pleasuring each other, the sex, and all of it every bit as affably as everything else. We’d laugh about it someday, we’d said—and we already _were_ laughing about it, genuinely, and heartily. 

“Yeah,” he said. “How much do you want to bet we’ll get paged to the Watchtower?”

“Twenty bucks says we’re called in by five,” I said.

“You’re on,” he told me. “I’m betting four.”

“That’s in like an hour,” I said, then laughed. “Deal.”

There was an interim of silence. I wrestled with a sudden feeling of intense melancholy, the rain dribbling steadily around us. Although it was a little warmer here than in Bludhaven, it was still chilly enough that my breath froze into gray bursts of condensation on the air and the damp seeped deep into my marrow. I hunched my shoulders, and tried to quell the abrupt surge of unexpected, inexplicable sadness. It somehow grew when Dick reached out, and drew me to him. I closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead, the tip of my nose, my lips. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he told me, his voice a murmur, soothing and calm; his body warm, solid, secure.

I paused for a moment, and then, heartened, I leaned into the middle of his chest, with the strange, deep-rooted feeling that I belonged there.


End file.
